


One Bad Day

by Rhoder



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Drugs, F/M, Gun Violence, Organized Crime, Romance, Sex, Slow Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 73,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16658858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoder/pseuds/Rhoder
Summary: Twenty-four year-old Dora has lived in Gotham her whole life and thought she had grown accustomed to the rampant crime and corruption. Her life takes a turn for the worse when Black Mask takes over her neighborhood and kills her father for not paying protection money. Even worse, her little sister is hanging out with a bad crowd and using drugs. Forced to support her family in her father's place, and harassed and extorted by Black Mask's enforcers, Dora feels like she's in over her head and that all hope for a peaceful life is lost.Then one night, a new vigilante saves her life, calling himself the Red Hood. However, Red Hood is not your typical knight in shining armor and he doesn't align himself with Gotham's resident Bat-Family. He proceeds on a rampage of blood and fire throughout Gotham, killing Black Mask's men without hesitation or remorse, only to put his own henchmen in their place and take over their illicit operations. He even attempts to kill Batman himself.As Red Hood literally paints the town red, battling against both crime and Batman, Dora fights a battle of her own--whether or not to let herself fall in love with a revenge-driven killer.





	1. Park Row

“All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy… Just one bad day.”  
\- The Joker

 

Chapter 1: Park Row

 

The brakes of Dora’s rusty old Chevy Impala screeched. The car slowed to a halt in front of the high school. It used to amaze her that the car started whenever she turned the key, but as of late she wasn’t in a position to question it, she was just grateful it did. She pulled up the parking brake and waited.

PS 124 was the high school she had graduated from... What was it? Four years ago? It almost amazed Dora how much time had passed, but where someone else would feel nostalgia, Dora felt relief. She was glad that high school was over, glad she never had to go back into that building five days a week. High school was not fun for her. Going to school in Park Row—Gotham’s toughest neighborhood—wasn’t fun for anyone. A few students managed to graduate. Most students were just lucky they made it out alive.

The bell rang and a minute later hundreds of teenagers poured out of the dilapidated brick building and onto the worn and cracked pavement of the courtyard and patchy lawn in front. Some students loitered to chat, others hurried to buses, some to their parents’ cars, just as many walked. Dora waited patiently for her sister Carla to appear out of the crowd. Carla was a popular girl, more than Dora ever was back when she attended PS 124, and loved to linger a bit after school to talk to her many friends.

But twenty minutes later, the crowd of students and the fleet of buses and cars were gone and Carla was nowhere to be seen.

With a groan of annoyance, Dora pulled out her phone. She tapped in, _“I’m supposed to pick you up today, remember? Where are you?”_ Carla was grounded, otherwise Dora would have just let her walk home like she normally did. Several minutes passed and no reply. Dora tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail.

“God damn it, Carla,” Dora cursed, getting out of the car. She jabbed her finger at a group of kids still lingering on the steps of the school building. One was boldly rolling a joint for anyone to see. “Hey, you!” The scruffy kid pointed at himself, unsure. “Yeah, you!” Dora stomped up to him. “Have you seen Carla Montgomery around?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Her big sister.”

The kid took a moment to size her up, but Dora wasn’t bothered. She and her little sister shared a likeness—brown hair, brown eyes, olive skin, and a short stature. Very short—five-foot-nothing. They were often mistaken for twins even up close, despite being almost eight years apart. Dora knew their resemblance was part of the reason why Carla had teal extensions and more piercings than she could count. She didn’t like being associated with Dora.

Dora adjusted her glasses, annoyed that the kids hadn’t answered her. “Well? Do you know her? Where is she?”

The kid consulted his friends with a look. They all shook their heads. “Fuck off, bitch. I ain’t telling you shit.”

“Fine, I’ll check inside,” Dora said as she hopped up the steps, bumping into the kid. A small bag of weed fell out of his hands. Before he could pick it up, Dora snatched it up instead. The whole group of delinquents jumped to their feet, yelling and starting in her direction.

“Whoa there, hold on." Dora smirked, stepping out of their reach. She overturned the bag and a few buds fell onto the ground, becoming lost in the grass. “Save me the trouble of having to look for her, and I’ll save you the trouble of having to pick weeds out of the school’s lawn.”

“For fuck's sake, would someone just tell the bitch where Carla is? That’s the last of my stash,” one of them said. There was a round of grumbling, until someone finally spoke. “Heard Carla went to meet some people on Park Row and West 52nd, at the bodega.”

“Meeting who? Doing what?”

“Fuck if I know, lady. She ain’t _my_ sister.”

An address was enough, so Dora decided not to push further. She zipped up the bag and tossed it over her shoulder, letting the stoners scramble over themselves to retrieve it. She got back in her car and drove off.

Another person would have hesitated to go because West 52nd Street was in the bad part of town… but the whole neighborhood Dora’s family lived in was bad. Gotham’s Park Row was thirty square blocks of bleak hopelessness, drenched in despair. The highest crime rate of _all_ of Gotham’s boroughs, a shooting or two happening every week, drugs being sold on every corner, prostitutes turning tricks along every sidewalk. Not a great place to grow up, but somehow Dora had managed to get by without getting into too much trouble… her little sister Carla, however, wasn’t holding up as well.

When Dora arrived at the corner, she parked the Impala on the curb, wondering what Carla needed from a bodega this far away from their apartment.

_Fuck._

It occurred to her that the only way Carla could have gotten this far from school by now was if she had ditched the last few periods of class—at least.

Dora’s instincts told her she didn’t even need to check the bodega, so she rounded the corner, and looked into the alley. She found exactly what she expected—her fourteen-year-old sister. But then she saw something else...

A glass pipe expelling thick clouds of white smoke—in her sister’s hands. She was surrounded by several men—not boys, but adult _men_.

One of them had to be at least Dora's age, twenty-two, which was too old to be hanging out with a fourteen-year-old girl.

“Yeah, babe, that’s it… Breathe deep…” One of them held up his lighter and Carla leaned towards the flame for another hit. “Hey! What the fuck?”

Dora had sprinted the distance from the curb to the alley and swatted the pipe out of Carla’s hands. The pipe shattered on the concrete, and—just as Dora had feared—little white rocks were among the glass shards.

_Crack? No..._ Dora could hardly believe what was happening. Smoking pot with her girlfriends was one thing, sneaking a bottle of wine or beer from their parents’ bar was another, but her little sister had ditched school to hang with a group of older men and smoke _crack cocaine_.

“Dora!?” Carla reeled back, shocked. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Me? You’re grounded, so what are _you_ doing here? You were supposed to meet me after school!”

Carla cringed, remembering her promise. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, Dee, I forgot.”

“Sorry? Were you even at school today?”

“Yeah, of course I was!”

“The _whole_ day?”

Carla averted her eyes. “Well, most of it…” At Dora’s growl, Carla continued, “Look, it’s not even a big deal. All my classes after lunch are electives anyway! I was there for the important shit!”

“You thought you were grounded before, Carla?” Dora shouted. “Well, now you’re fucking _buried_! Let’s go!”

Carla didn’t move.

“I said _now_!” Dora grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward the street.

“Dora, no! Stop!” Carla whined. “Stop being so lame! Leave me alone!”

One of the men grabbed Dora and pried Carla from her grasp. “Hey, back off! She said she didn’t want to go!”

“Don’t touch me!” Dora spat at him. She shrugged off the man’s hand and reached for her sister again. “We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re not, bitch.” The man pointed at the broken pipe and crack on the ground. “You trashed perfectly good product. You owe us, puta.”

Dora’s anger faltered for a moment, displaced by a tinge of fear. These weren’t teenaged stoners, they were members of the Latino Unified gang, judging by the neck tattoos and the black and orange clothes. She was grossly outnumbered and overpowered. She looked at Carla and saw that she was beginning to regret her choice of company.

But Dora regained her composure just as fast as she had lost it. “Fine.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a couple twenties—and her can of pepper spray.

The thugs all took a step back, but their apparent leader still seemed primed for a fight. He slid down his sunglasses. Her pepper spray wasn’t so threatening now. With a nervous gulp, Dora tossed the money on the ground and grabbed Carla again. “There, keep the change. Let’s go, Carla.”

Fortunately, the men hadn’t surrounded them, so Dora and Carla were able to walk backwards out of the alley and back onto the street. Before rounding the corner, Dora yelled, “Don’t ever talk to my sister again, or I’ll let the False Facers know you’re dealing on their turf!”

“Dora, are you crazy?” Carla said once the thugs were out of sight. “You think they’re afraid of your little can of mace? You’re lucky they took the cash and let us just walk away without shooting us.”

“Serious bangers won’t carry a piece since the gang war, with the GCPD getting all Gestapo and frisking anyone that looks at them funny.”

“You could’ve gotten us killed, Dee.”

“ _You_ could’ve gotten _yourself_ killed, Carla. Hanging out with gangbangers? Fumando coca? You know better!”

In the car, the sisters drove in tense silence. Carla radiated typical teenage resentment amid her manic fidgeting—jerking her head around, scratching her arms, and bouncing her foot anxiously. Dora had done two years of nursing courses at Gotham University, so she knew the symptoms. She had gotten there too late—her little sister was high on crack and wouldn't come down for a while. She could only hope Carla hadn't developed a taste for it yet.

As Dora drove, anger, disappointment, and fear roiled in her chest, threatening to froth over as tears. How was she going to tell her mother that one of her daughters was skipping school to smoke crack with gang members twice her age?

悪

“Fuck no, I ain’t going in there!”

“Either you go in there and _listen_ to what they have to say, or I tell Mami everything. _Everything_ , Carla. Cutting school, doing drugs, hanging with dealers, todo.”

“Fuck you, Dee,” Carla spat. “Snitches get stitches.”

Dora ignored that—or tried to. “Get straight. Or be another dumb bitch that gets buried in a ditch—by her gangster _‘friends_.’” She used air quotes.

Carla had no retort, so she just sat there, fidgeting. Dora turned away. She rubbed her temples, wishing for a more comfortable chair and a warmer waiting room. The Park Row Free Clinic had a bare-bones, no-frills decor. White walls, white floors, gray accents. Despite the good work done here, it was a bleak place, one that wasn’t accommodating for impatient people—like anxious teenage girls coming down from a crack high, trying to avoid going to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

Thankfully, people began showing up a few minutes later, entering the meeting room and taking seats in chairs arranged in a circle. Dora ushered Carla in and put her in a chair, whispering, “You need this, Carla. Make it through one meeting, and I won’t tell Mami. You think I’m pissed? You have no idea about her. You’re probably too young to remember Dad at his worst, but Mami didn’t put up with _any_ of his shit and kicked his ass out. She sure won’t put up with yours.”

The look in Carla’s face could only be read as “ _fuck you_ ”—pure distilled resentment. But she stayed in her seat and looked forward. As someone began to lead the meeting, Dora walked out, closing the door. 12-Step meetings usually lasted an hour, so she wondered if she could go to her car and have a nap in the meantime.

“Nice to see you back.” A tall and slim woman walked up to her, with gray hair and kind eyes. She wore glasses and a lab coat, a stethoscope hanged from her neck.

“Dr. Thompkins, hi.”

“How many times have I told you to call me Leslie?”

“Sorry.” Dora tried again, “Hey, Leslie. How are you?”

“Good, but I’m more concerned about how _you_ are. First you quit on me, then you don’t see or talk to me for however many months, and now I see you at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting? Dora, should I be concerned?”

 “I’m sorry, you don’t have to worry about me. It’s just.... it’s my sister Carla. She’s... never mind. I’ve got it under control.” It was too embarrassing and Dora didn’t want Leslie’s judgement.

“Very supportive of you to bring her to a meeting.”

“If you say so,” Dora said, while thinking, _Is it really support? I feel like I'm just dumping her problems on a bunch of strangers so I don’t have to deal with them myself._

“How’s your mother? And your other sister... Mercedes, right?”

“Mercy, yeah. They’re both good.”

“Your classes?”

Dora cracked her knuckles audibly. “Still dropped out, but come on—you knew that already.” Leslie was a nice woman, but Dora could now tell her small talk wasn’t genuine. It was a little too probing. She knew why. She had to say it. “I’m not coming back, Leslie.”

Leslie smiled slightly, more amused than annoyed that Dora had seen through her pretense. “It’s hard to find good nurses around Park Row—even harder to find _great_ nurses, like you.”

“I was never a nurse,” Dora reminded her. “Only a student on work-study. An orderly.”

“I beg to differ. You stepped up after the earthquake, risked your own safety to provide care and aid when the rest of the country abandoned this city. Then again during the gang war—the three most violent days in Gotham’s history, you chose to help people rather than riot, loot, or just stand by. You saved _lives_ , Dora.”

“I broke the law. _You_ broke the law by letting me do what I did.”

“Those people needed _help_. They were in good hands. _Your_ hands. You could be something better than a bartender. Those hands should be _healing_ people, not pouring drinks."

Looking down, Dora couldn’t help but curl her fingers into fists.

“You’re an excellent nurse,” Leslie insisted, “even though you’re not certified. You’re probably better than a legitimate nurse, and I daresay you could be more.”

Dora had suffered Leslie’s misplaced praise numerous times. Before, she had been proud to have her mentor’s admiration, but now... she felt ashamed she couldn’t live up to Leslie’s expectations. Helping others and being selfless came at an expense. A personal expense. One she wasn’t willing to pay any longer. “Leslie, I can’t—”

Just then, the doors of the meeting room flew open. Carla came stomping out. “Fuck this, I’m out. I don’t have a problem. Those saps can moan and whine all they want. I’m not hearing it,” Carla said more to herself than anyone. She disappeared around the corner, not looking back at Dora.

“I’m sorry, Leslie, but my family needs me more than the Clinic.”

Leslie nodded, understanding—or seeming to. “Take care, Dora.”

Dora lingered only for a second to give Leslie an apologetic look, then ran off after Carla.

-

v0.3.15.1


	2. Dues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical night at work suddenly turns sour when thugs from Black Mask's gang come to harass Dora and her friends.

Chapter 2: Dues

Dora’s family owned the Montgomery Building, a small four-story walk-up with run-down studio apartments on the upper three floors and a bar on the first. However, that didn’t mean Dora’s family was well off. The bar, called the Alibi, had seen better days. Many people considered it the epitome of dive bars, an impressive title if one bore in mind the competition it had being located on Park Row—a street so derelict and dangerous it was nicknamed “Crime Alley” by Gotham’s residents. The brick walls of the Montgomery Building were chipped, crumbling, and graffitied. Cracks and smudges covered the plate glass window on the first floor and the iron bars in front of it were red with rust. Inside the bar, the furniture’s upholstery was torn and threadbare, all the mismatched tables wobbled, and several of the billiard balls were cracked. The bathrooms reeked, the pipes groaned, and the taps had no pressure. The toilets clogged and leaked no matter how hard Dora and her sole employee Rochelle worked at fixing them.

Rochelle was the closest thing Dora had to a best friend. Originally, she was the Alibi’s resident cook, back when it could have been considered a pub. However, since then the stove, the oven, and the deep fryer had all fallen into disrepair, and Dora couldn’t afford to fix them all. Afterward, Rochelle transitioned into the role of bartender, which suited her just as well as cook had. She proved to be a better mixologist than Dora, and was especially popular with the male customers because of her blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and petite stature. Her Australian accent and good humor enhanced that magnetic allure. That concerned Dora, given the nature of their usual clientele. The Alibi was the local watering hole for the typical minimum wage earners of Park Row, but also the gangsters, addicts, ex-cons, parolees, and the various other dissident riff-raff that plagued Gotham—not unlike the men Dora had found Carla hanging out with earlier that day. However, Rochelle was tough and could handle the rough customers.

“One of those dudes was older than _me._ Can you believe that?” Dora grunted from under the bar counter. She was tangled in hoses and pulling on a wrench. One of the beer taps had been leaking. Dora had called it in, but once the repair guy had realized where the Alibi was located, he promptly cancelled, leaving Dora and Rochelle to figure it out their own.

“How the hell did she even meet those guys?” Rochelle asked, cleaning some mugs.

“Believe me, I wish I knew. I _should’ve_ known. I’m supposed to take care of her.” It was hours after Dora had taken Carla home from the NA meeting, but she was still reeling from everything that had happened. Working couldn’t distract her like it usually did.

A tall girl with strawberry blonde hair sat across the counter, drinking a bottle of cider—Holly, Dora’s only other friend. “Did you forget we live on Park Row?” she asked.

“No.” Hoping that she had fixed the tap, Dora stood and lugged a keg under the bar. “But somehow I managed to keep my nose out of trouble when I was her age… Mostly.”

“Well, times have changed.” Rochelle shrugged, helping Dora with the keg. “The Odessa Mob ran most of the neighborhood back when you were a kid, but Black Mask is in control now.”

“I bet you anything those dealers were part of his False Face gang,” Holly added.

Dora grunted, pumping the tap. “Most False Facers wear leather masks. Not these guys. They had on orange gear and ‘L.U.’ neck tattoos.”

Holly frowned, concerned. “Latino United? Whoa. Those were serious gangbangers Carla was smoking with. They’re street dealers for the Escabedo Cartel, and the cartel works with the False Facers, so... just as bad, I guess. Ironic, isn’t it? It’s like all the gangs in Gotham are more organized than the fucking cops—or the government.”

“I know, right?” Dora tapped the keg. “Hey, give it a go, Rocky.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I liked it better when Kosov and the Odessa Mob were in charge.” Rochelle pulled the tap handle and poured a foamy mug of beer. “At least Kosov had standards. Kept the drug trade clean for what it was.”

“Wouldn’t say that Kosov had _standards._ ” Dora looked at the mug in disapproval and poured it down the drain.

“Yeah, he was just small-time compared to Black Mask,” Holly added. “The cops and the Bats had an easier time keeping him under control. He wasn’t as ambitious as the Mask.”

Dora let out an exasperated breath. “Black Mask is on a whole other level. The Bat Crew are barely making a dent in his organization.”

“That’s because they’re not even trying anymore!” Rochelle shouted, frustrated, her Australian accent more apparent than ever. “Fucking Bats. The gang war scared them off. It was practically their fault it broke out in the first place.”

Dora didn’t agree, but she didn’t say anything. Even months after the gang war, there was still debate and speculation among the whole city as to which of Gotham’s myriad gangs lit the spark that ignited the war—but almost everyone agreed that Batman and his crew added fuel to the fire and hadn’t done nearly enough to put it out.

Rochelle handed a new mug of beer to Dora. “How’s this?” That brought Dora’s mind back to the task at hand. The draft had a nice thin head of foam, so she took a swig. It tasted full and rich, so she was satisfied that she had fixed the tap.

Even still, she couldn’t help but groan. She took a longer draw to calm her nerves. “That’s still no excuse! Carla knows better!” She grunted, slamming her mug on the counter, making Rochelle and Holly flinch. “Crack? Really? I kept that detail from my mom, but she still almost had a heart attack when I told her how much school Carla’s been missing. My ears are still ringing from all the shouting! The Alibi is barely getting by as is; we can’t afford rehab, guys. I don’t want Carla to turn out like… like…” Dora locked eyes with Holly for a second and she couldn’t finish the sentence. She quickly switched her gaze to Rochelle, who couldn’t hold eye contact either.

Holly tried to come across as nonchalant by chipping the polish off her fingernail—which made the situation even more awkward. “Like me?” she finally said.

Dora exchanged a look with Rochelle. “No, Holly,” she said hurriedly. “That’s not what I meant… What I meant to say was… was…”

Holly shrugged. “Hey, I’m a hooker, but I’m not—or ever was, or will be—a junkie. At least I got _that_ goin’ for me.”

“You know she didn’t mean it like that,” Rochelle said.

Holly reached across the counter and held both their hands. “Don’t worry about it, Dee. At least Carla still has a choice. It’s not too late for her to turn things around. Plus, she’s got you two watching her back. Wish I had big sisters like you that gave a fuck while I was growing up.”

Dora hoped it wasn’t too late for her little sister. Although Holly had become a dear friend to Dora since the end of the gang war, she had to admit that she didn’t want Carla to turn out like her. Holly was sixteen, only two years older than Carla, but despite that she was a dropout and already turning tricks in a dive bar, where all her johns were either enforcers or dealers. Dora normally wouldn’t allow Holly to find johns in her bar, let alone _any_ prostitute, but that decision wasn’t up to her since Black Mask took over Kosov’s racket.

Dora decided that she had wallowed in her own problems long enough for one day. “Hey… how about you?” she asked Holly. “How are you holding up now that Stan works for Black Mask?”

“Getting by, I guess.” Holly sighed, stretching her arms behind her back. Dora heard her shoulders _pop_. “Yesterday was my first night alone in weeks. I’m on the rag, so Stan gave me a few days off.”

“Why are you here then?” Rochelle asked. “You should be at home relaxing.”

Holly smiled and shrugged. “I live in an underground brothel that works around the clock, so I’d rather be here. I like hanging out with you guys. Sometimes it seems like you two are the last decent people in this town.”

Taking a moment, Dora could see how a short respite from sex work had refreshed Holly. Her pixie-cut red-blonde hair wasn’t greasy like it usually was, her skin looked fresh, the bags under her eyes were all but gone—she wasn’t even wearing make-up today and looked _better_ because of it.

But Dora couldn’t stop the disgusted shudder that rippled throughout her body. She knew Holly’s youthful vitality and natural beauty would be spoiled by the next john soon enough, if not Stan himself.

“Okay, Holly, I know you say you’re not, but you are better than this. Why don’t you just quit? You can stay with me till you get on your feet.” Dora was prepared to move heaven and earth to keep Carla clean. If even a fraction of that effort could help Holly, then she could at least try.

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t.” Holly ran a trembling hand through her short hair, making it stand on end. “Black Mask has a leash on every working girl, one way or another.”

Debt, drugs, family, shelter—Dora knew about the influence pimps typically held over their prostitutes. She now regretted mentioning it, realizing that she had reminded Holly about whatever leverage Black Mask had on her. Dora felt a pang in her chest as well. Black Mask had a leash on her too, a leash that could tighten into a noose if she stepped even an inch out of line. She knew the consequences full well.

The doorbell jingled as a group of men entered the bar.

“Fuck,” Rochelle cursed aloud. Dora echoed silently, recalling something her abuela had once said. “ _Tenga cuidado, mija. Sabes lo que pasa cuando se habla del diablo.”_

Dora knew the group of men. Mikhail, Yevy, and Sergei—enforcers from the Odessa Mob that had joined Black Mask’s False Face Society when he won the gang war. Mikhail and Yevy were both over six feet tall and 250 pounds, at least—your typical Ukrainian bruisers; young, cocky, boisterous, and quick to anger.

On the other hand, Sergei was much older and a little shorter, although not by much. He was the de facto leader of this little posse and the most patient, but only because age and experience made him relatively smart and level-headed—but he still wasn’t a nice man by any stretch.

“Hm. New guy,” Rochelle pointed out.

A fourth man had walked into the bar that wasn’t usually part of Sergei’s posse—a Latino, shorter, slimmer, and younger than the others. The absence of tattoos and lack of sporty orange clothing suggested he was a member of the Escabedo Cartel, not the Latino United gang. During the gang war a few months ago, Black Mask had done something unprecedented in Gotham—he had brought together all the gangs and crews in the city and created a united criminal syndicate that ran the streets and answered ultimately to him—and only him. Neither Penguin or Two-Face, even in their primes, had managed to do that.

“Ah, shit.” Rochelle frowned. “Dee, I think you should split. Get out of here.”

“Why?” She paid close attention to the men’s conversation.

Mikhail was relating a story to the new guy as they approached the counter. Once Dora realized what was being said, she felt the floor sink underneath her.

“So Black Mask lays into Monty,” Mikhail said, smirk on his face, “just _pounds_ on the poor bastard, curb-stomps the man, makes his face look like a fucking Picasso or some shit. Asshole’s head is bouncing off the ground, teeth are flying, ribs are popping… Pretty soon I just feel sorry for the guy, eh?”

Dora’s stomach clenched and coiled tighter at every word.

“So I tell the boss to give him a break, y’know,” Mikhail went on, “and so he does, and ol’ Monty just lays there and whimpers and twitches, right? The guy used to be a fucking Marine, so we thought he could take a beating like a man, right? But I swear he pissed his pants! _Ah haha!_ Didn’t he, Yevy? Pissed his pants like fucking little baby. Haha! Total pussy! No balls on that piece of shit! Pathetic!”

Dora’s heart was on the verge of exploding. Her eyes stung painfully from stifled tears. The things they were saying—she wanted to retch. It was only Rochelle’s hand grasping hers that kept her in check.

“Don’t listen to them,” Rochelle whispered. “Just leave. I’ve got this.”

Mikhail’s distasteful recollection was getting so out of line that the bar’s already few customers started leaving, not bothering to settle their tabs face-to-face—they just left crumpled dollars on the table. But Dora couldn’t bring herself to listen to Rochelle’s advice and leave as well. Grief and rage had welded her feet to the floor. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose to stanch the tears trying to escape.

“And this is the poor bastard’s daughter, she runs the bar now.” Mikhail tapped his knuckles on the countertop. He looked at Dora, cracking a lecherous and thoroughly unappealing smile. “Hiya, sweetheart.”

In that instant, Dora wanted to claw his eyes out—she spent three whole seconds imagining it in explicit and _satisfying_ detail—but she forced herself to say, “Hi, Mikhail.” Her stomach lurched. Bile burned the back of her throat, but she didn’t let it show.

“A round of Valdushka, would ya, babe?”

“I’ll get it,” Rochelle offered, her eyes pleading Dora. “Take a break,” she mouthed silently.

But Dora’s pride wouldn’t let her walk away. “No.” She went to the end of the bar for the men’s favorite imported vodka. Every step she took seemed to be on her own aching heart. The bottle was at the top of the shelf, so she had to use a step ladder to reach it.

“Ah, man, look at that _ass._ Umph!”

Dora’s back turned to the ice and she almost dropped the bottle. It wasn’t Mikhail that had spoken this time, it was Yevy. “What did I tell you, newbie? Gets it from her mother. Old Monty had a taste for them thick Latinas.”

“The feisty kind too,” Mikhail chimed in. “Priscan. Right, sweetcheeks?”

It took every last bit of strength Dora had to keep her face straight and her voice calm. “Yeah, my mom is from Santa Prisca.”

“Mm-mm. What a piece Anita was back in the day,” Sergei, the oldest, said with a throaty chuckle.

“Me, though? I like my bitches lily white,” said the new Latino guy. He turned to Rochelle and smiled. If not for the filthy way he spoke, Dora might have considered him cute. “Hey, babe. Seen you around,” he said to Rochelle. “Name’s Rafael. Or Rafi. Your choice.”

Rochelle gave him a polite but strained smile, not saying a word as she poured their drinks.

“What’s your name, honey?” Rafi asked.

“Rachel or whatever,” Sergei interjected. “But trust me, boy, this is the one you want a taste of.” He slid onto a bar stool next to Holly. “Her name’s Kitty.” Both Dora and Rochelle knew that “Kitty” was Holly’s working name. “How’s it going, baby? How about you introduce yourself and take my friend Rafi out back?”

“It’s my night off, Sergei. Sorry.”

“I’m sure you can make an exception for your favorite customer.” He placed his large calloused hand on her thigh and slid it up toward the button of her jeans.

Holly swatted his hand away. “You lay a hand on me tonight, Sergei, and Stan will skin your ass tomorrow morning.”

“Oh! Kitty has claws!” Rafi laughed. “Better be careful, old man. I heard Stan doesn’t fuck around.”

“Fuck off, spic. I ain’t that old,” Sergei barked. He shoved Holly aside and sat down in her barstool. Ungrateful little cunt.” He tossed back his shot of vodka and slammed the glass on the countertop. “More, now.”

Dora had enough. As inconspicuous as she could, she headed straight for the kitchen, then slipped out the back door.

Once she was in the back alley, the levee broke.

Her breath came in heaving gasps and tears poured out of her so fast, so hard, she thought her eyes would burst. Every sob was a quake that shook throughout her whole body and resonated in her chest, building up grief, rage, and hatred until she was on the verge of vomiting. Sergei and his men never left the bar without at least a few catcalls at her and Rochelle, or a dig or two at her father, but today was unprecedented and especially brutal. Was it just because they wanted to brag to the new guy?

It was sickening. They were _proud_ of what they had done to her father.

A racking groan finally ripped itself free from Dora’s lungs, but was muffled by Rochelle’s chest as she wrapped Dora in her arms. Rochelle had come from nowhere and Dora couldn’t have been more grateful. Gripping onto her tightly, Dora had never loved her more than right at that moment.

“Shh…” Rochelle cooed. “Don’t listen to those dirt bags. Just ignore them.”

_Easier said than done,_ Dora thought as she soaked Rochelle’s shirt with her tears. “Those… assholes… k-killed my… my father…” she stammered between sobs.

“I know, but…” Rochelle tried, but failed to find words to console her.

How could she? There was no hope, no justice, no _good_ in Gotham. All Rochelle could do was hold Dora until the ache became numb again and her tears filled the gaping hole in her heart _again_. That was all Dora could ask for—time, the only thing that seemed to work now. The longer no one brought up her father, the better she felt. It allowed her to forget—but even the slightest hint at what had happened brought it all back and darkened her whole world again.

It seemed like Dora and Rochelle were out there for hours, in the back alley, leaning against the graffitied wall next to the rusting dumpsters and dented trash bins. Above, Dora noticed the stars had disappeared, making the sky pitch black. From between the tightly packed multi-story buildings bordering the alley, Dora could only tell it was raining by the water dripping off the fire escapes and spouting out of the gutter pipes. A typical gloomy night in Gotham.

The bar’s back door slammed open, startling both the girls.

“There they are,” Mikhail said. “Boys, out back!”

Dora got to her feet, wiping tears from her cheeks and replacing her glasses. She sniffled. “Sorry, guys. I was on my break. Do you need another round?”

“No, babe, not now,” Sergei said as he lumbered out into the alley. “It’s time for business.”

“Business?”

“Yeah, your taxes are due,” Mikhail said.

Dora frowned, confused. “But I got another week.”

Mikhail shrugged, uncaring. “Something’s come up. We’re collecting early.”

“Why?” Rochelle asked. “What’s come up?”

“None of your fucking business.” Mikhail shoved her aside. “Your boss just has to pay up.”

Dora didn’t even need to make a mental count of the bar’s books. She already knew she didn’t have the protection money ready. She looked over Mikhail’s shoulder to Sergei. “Is he serious?”

“Over my head. Sorry, Dee,” he said, shrugging. “The Mask wants you to pay up.”

Dora was at a loss. “I… I don’t have it, guys. I’m sorry.”

Mikhail snickered and shared a look with Yevy and Rafi. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Yeah, just give me another week like you’re supposed to.” She would have collected the rent from the tenants in the apartments above the bar by then.

“No, babe, I mean _now._ ”

Mikhail took a step toward her. Dora took a step back—only to realize she was being cornered between the wall and a dumpster. She reached for her belt loop, but her keychain and its little can of mace wasn’t there. The dull ache of grief in her chest was replaced by a sharp pang of fear. Mikhail was a foot taller than her and twice her weight. What could she do?

She held her ground. “Back off, Mikhail.” She tried to sound tough. Mikhail took a step and feinted. Dora flinched despite herself. “W-what are you doing?” she stammered, though she already knew.

“Offering you a discount.” Mikhail closed in on her. He took away her glasses before Dora could stop him. The world faded away and all she could see was him, looming over her.

“No… don’t.” Dora turned away, reeling from his nasty vodka-scented breath. Mikhail didn’t have it in him, he would never…

But he grabbed her chin and kissed her.

Dora kept her lips shut tight—as much to deny him the satisfaction as to stop herself from puking.

Mikhail pulled away. “Just do me this favor. It’ll cost you nothing,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and putrid. His hand slid down her body, going from her neck, to her shoulder… lingering for an extra moment on her breast… then her stomach, until he finally grabbed a handful of her butt. Dora felt as though he left a trail of slime the whole way. “Relax, baby. This could be fun for the both of us.”

Dora had always been able to keep her mask on in front of these guys, but she couldn’t stop the frightened whimper that escaped her lips or the fresh tears that streamed from her eyes. Clearly, Black Mask forcing them to take the money was bullshit. The only reason why Mikhail wanted to collect on protection early was to leverage sex from her.

Rochelle wasn’t faring any better. Yevy had cozied up to her in much the same way, ripping off her hoodie and cornering her against a wall. He pulled the tie out of her hair so hard she yelped.

Panic set in. Dora’s heart beat so hard, her ears hurt. She didn’t know what to do. She was frozen.

“Hey, Mikhail! Back off!” Holly’s voice broke the illusion of solitude Mikhail and Yevy had somehow created. Dora remembered she and Rochelle weren’t alone. “I said back the fuck off!”

“Why should I? I’m not done yet.” Mikhail still hadn’t let go of Dora’s butt, so he gave it a firm squeeze. “I haven’t even started.” And to that, Dora squirmed.

“Look…” Holly sighed. “If you’re itching for it that bad, I… I’ll take care of you. No charge.”

Mikhail guffawed, but backed off Dora a bit. “Ha! And why would I want your bony little ass instead of Dee over here?” He smacked Dora’s butt for emphasis; she yelped in pain and disgust.

“Yeah, and I got myself a British girl that isn’t a twig,” Yevy sneered.

“I’m Australian, asshole!” Rochelle spat at him.

“Shut the fuck up.” Yevy shook her. “You’re a limey bitch all the same.”

“I’m not…” Rochelle tried, but her words were cut off. Yevy’s large hand encircled her neck.

“See, I would never give either of you any attitude like that,” Holly said, a little too nervous to be seductive.

“But I like it when they squirm…” Mikhail growled.

Sergei chuckled, finally stepping in. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, boy.”

“Yeah, Mikhail, why would you have her over me?” Holly asked, more believable this time. “You knew her dad. How he raised her. Dee’s a total prude; I mean, look at her. She’s probably still a virgin. _I_ know how to work a man. Tell him, Sergei. I take good care of you, don’t I?”

Now without Mikhail’s massive body blocking her view, Dora saw a debauched quiver of lust pass through the old man. He reached into his pocket and adjusted himself. “She ain’t kidding. She’s young but she ain’t green; knows her way around a cock. _Tightest_ cunt on the block, too.”

Mikhail took a step back, looking back and forth between the Dora and Holly. He lingered on Holly. “How old are you, Kitty?”

Holly sauntered over to Mikhail, trying to put all her sex appeal into each step. “As young as you want me to be… _Daddy._ ”

Mikhail cracked a twisted smile. “Oooh man, I like that. _Rrrr_ …”

“Hol—Kitty, don’t…” Dora said out of reflex, but then she realized what she was condemning herself to if she tried to stop them. _Take Yevy instead, let Rochelle get away… I’ll be fine._ But even as the thought crossed her mind, she doubted it would work.

“Don’t worry about it, Dee. This is what I do for a living. Come with me, Mikhail.” Holly waved him over on the way to the pub’s back door. Mikhail let go of Dora and followed her, unbuckling his belt as he walked. “You’re next,” Holly told Yevy—as much with her voice as with her eyes. Yevy’s grip on Rochelle loosened.

“You know what, Micky? Do you mind if I join in?” asked Rafi, the new guy.

Mikhail chucked. “What the heck, why not? I like the idea of double teaming the little bitch.”

Holly stopped, hand on the door handle. “Hey, wait just a minute. I never said I’d fuck two of you at the same time.” She tried to move away, but Mikhail grabbed her and bent her over a trash bin.

“Do you think we give a shit? Hold her down, Rafi.”

“Here?” Rafi asked, but he had already grabbed what little he could of Holly’s pixie short hair to rein her. She cried out in pain.

For an instant, Dora imagined her father lying on the pavement, broken—it was the same spot. She couldn’t stand by and let that happen again.

“Let her go!” Dora cried. Before she could second-guess herself, she barreled towards Mikhail and Rafi, hoping to pry them off her. However, Sergei’s elbow appeared out of nowhere and caught her in the neck. She hit the ground hard.

Lightning flashed and blinded her, but she heard no thunder. She realized that her vision strobed because her head had hit the concrete—most likely giving her a concussion. Only then did the pain set in.

“Kitty’s doing you a favor, Dee,” Sergei said above her, wrapping his hand around her neck. “Let the boys have their fun… or do you want it to be you instead?”

Dora couldn’t have answered even if she wanted to, Sergei’s grip was cutting off her breath, whether he realized it or not.

“Ah! No!” Holly screamed. “I can hook you up with my girlfriends! They’ll take care of you, I promise! Please don’t!”

With her glasses gone, coupled with the concussion, Dora couldn’t make out Holly’s image clearly, but she could make out that her jeans were around her knees.

Mikhail dropped his pants. “Hold her steady, Rafi.”

“No!” Dora managed to croak, and she heard Rochelle echo. Dora was completely overtaken by rage and desperation. She couldn’t let more people she cared about be harmed in this alley. She squirmed under Sergei’s grasp, found leverage, and brought her knee up into his groin. Sergei wheezed in pain and his grip around her neck loosened. Dora bit his hand as hard as she could. She heard a satisfying _crack_ come from Sergei’s knuckles.

“ _Argh!_ You stupid cunt!” Sergei ripped his hand out of Dora’s mouth, but brought the other around in a backhand punch hit her straight on the jaw, snapping her head to the side.

Sergei replaced his grip around her throat with his remaining good hand, laughing. “Didn’t know I was a southpaw, did ya, bitch?”

“Everything alright there, Sergei?” Mikhail asked. He had turned his attention away from Holly, so Dora felt that little distraction was worth the beating—they hadn’t started. She tried to tell Holly to run, but she choked on the blood in her mouth. Sergei’s punch had made her bite her tongue.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Sergei told Mikhail. “Just beating some respect into this little spic.” He looked back down at Dora and smiled. “You gonna piss your pants like your father?”

At the mention of her father, Dora cried out in renewed rage. She lashed out with all her limbs—punching, kicking, gnashing her teeth, clawing at his arm with her nails… but it was futile, every blow glanced off, ineffectual.

Sergei raised his fist. Dora stopped struggling and braced herself.

_“Hey! Hands off the girls! Now!”_

Sergei lowered his arm. Mikhail, Rafi, and Yevy looked around the alley. With them distracted, Rochelle and Holly both tried to wriggle away, but their captors kept a film hold on them.

“Who said that?” Sergei called out.

“Me.”

Looking up because she was still pinned to the ground, Dora was the first to realize the voice was coming from above.

A man was perched on a fire escape. Dora could just barely make out a motorcycle jacket and faceless red mask—or was it a helmet?

“It’s one of the Bats!” Mikhail shouted.

The masked man chuckled, his voice somehow both muffled and sharply clear. “I’m not one of the Bats,” he said. To Dora’s amazement, he almost sounded bored.

Drawing his gun, Sergei jabbed the muzzle into Dora’s cheek. He signaled Rafi and Yevy to do the same to Holly and Rochelle. “Not part of Batman’s crew, eh? Then leave, asshole, or we shoot their pretty little faces off.”

The masked man stood up straight, rolled his shoulders, and popped his gloved knuckles. His nonchalant manner was gone.

“If you touch any of them again…” His voice took on a guttural undertone. “… I’ll cut your dicks off and make you eat them.”

-

v0.3.15.1


	3. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new vigilante appears to save Dora and her friends, however everyone is surprised to learn he's not part of the Bat Family... and he doesn't play by their rules.

Chapter 3: Seeing Red

Perched above them on the fire escape, the man with the red mask and motorcycle jacket rolled his shoulders and popped his gloved knuckles. “If you touch any of them again…” he growled, “I’ll cut your dicks off and make you eat them.”

Sergei scoffed. “This mook thinks he can make demands,” he said to his fellow thugs. “Hey, dumbass!” he shouted at the masked man. “Look who’s holding the guns here. You move a muscle and this girl’s face is a fucking doughnut!”

It was the masked man’s turn to scoff. He added a shrug. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thing Dora knew, she was deaf and blind. All she could see was white and all she could hear was high-pitched ringing. Like flipping a switch, she had a skull-cracking migraine to add to her concussion, split lip, and bitten tongue.

A few seconds passed where all light and sound strobed, then Dora regained her senses. The masked-man must have used some type of flashbang and smoke grenade combo. Swirling smoke and shadows obscured the whole alley around her. She could only see Sergei because he was right next to her. Then she realized that Sergei had lost his grip on her… and his gun wasn’t pointed in her face anymore.

“Ow! Fuck!” he cursed.

Dora blinked until she was able to make out Sergei grasping his hand in pain. His hand was bloody… and free of a gun. In its place was a knife.

 _No, wait… is that a… is that a fucking shuriken?_ She could hardly believe her eyes.

Sergei yelled something in Russian. The smoke cleared just enough for Dora to see Rafi, Mikhail, and Yevy—as well as Holly and Rochelle—all still recovering from whatever flashbang the masked man had used. The men aimed their guns around the alley, looking for him.

“I don’t see him, old man!” Rafi said, letting go of Holly. “Where did he go?”

“I’m right here, buddy.”

“Fuck!” Rafi cried. Lightning flashed as he was sucked into a cloud of smoke.

Without her glasses, Dora could only make out silhouettes—one brutalizing another, while yet another crawled away. She heard the sickening thumps of fists on flesh, grunts of exertion and yelps of pain.

Some of the haze finally cleared to reveal Rafi—on the ground, broken and beaten bloody. He was unconscious and missing a few teeth out of his gasping, gaping, and wheezing mouth. Dora recoiled, appalled. Holly did too, shrieking as she ran away. However, she only managed to run into Mikhail’s arms.

“Shut that bitch up!” Sergei ordered. Mikhail obeyed and pistol whipped Holly, who went down hard. Her head lulled to the side, unconscious. Blood trickled from a cut on her eyebrow.

Before she even knew what she was doing, Dora had lunged toward Mikhail, but only stopped because a crunching sound. She had stepped on her glasses. Weighing whether if it was better to have her sight back against the good it would do thrashing Mikhail over her knocked out friend, Dora begrudgingly shoved her glasses on and stayed where she was.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” That was the masked man speaking.

Although one lens of Dora’s glasses was badly scratched, she was able to see that the masked man more clearly now. He had already moved on to trading punches with Mikhail—or rather Mikhail swapping one punch for every three from the masked man.

Dora took advantage of the distraction and went to Holly. She dragged Holly’s limp body away from the brawling vigilante and Mikhail, and scanned the alley for Rochelle, but couldn’t find her in the swirling smoke.

Sergei had finally pulled out the shuriken from his hand. “Hang in  there, Misha!” he shouted. “When I find my piece, I will kill this red-face asshole!” He buried his hand under his arm to staunch the bleeding while he searched for his weapon.

The fight between Mikhail and the vigilante was absolutely brutal. Mikhail threw a punch at the masked man’s face, one the vigilante didn’t bother to dodge. Dora heard Mikhail’s fist crack against the mask, which made her realize it was more like a helmet. The vigilante grabbed Mikhail’s fist and pulled it aside, crushing the bones in his wrist and hand. He twisted Mikhail’s arm behind his back and Dora heard Mikhail’s bones snap as he screamed in agony. The vigilante then jammed his foot into Mikhail’s knee. Another sickening _crack_ reverberated in the air as the joint bent the wrong way.

Bawling like a child, Mikhail yelled in pain, “Stop! No! I’m sorry, okay! I’m sorry! Please! Stop! Please!” Then a backhand to his temple knocked him out cold.

“Enough of this bullshit!” It was Sergei’s voice.

_Blam! Blam! P-chew! P-chew!_

That was the sound of a gun being fired, Dora knew, but having lived on Park Row all her life, she also knew the tell-tale sound of a ricochet. Sergei had found his gun, but his shots had missed.

“Yevy! Get out your piece and nail this guy!” Sergei spat at his only remaining ally. _Blam! Blam!_

“What about the girl?”

“I don’t give a shit! Just shoot that motherfucker!”

“Dora, come on!” That was Rochelle’s voice, Dora realized. Rochelle burst out of the smoke from Yevy’s clutches and helped Dora pull Holly’s body behind a dumpster.

“Rochelle, are you okay?” Dora asked frantically, looking her over head to toe.

“Are you?” Rochelle gave her the same inspection.

Dora was bruised, bloody, and slightly concussed—but she still somehow felt lucky to be alive. Rochelle, however… and Holly….

“I’m fine, Dee,” Rochelle said reading Dora’s concerned look. “Better than you two anyway. Yevy never got a chance to hurt me. Whoever this masked dude is, he saved me. He saved _us_.”

But Dora knew she, Rochelle, and Holly weren’t safe yet. Smoke still swirled throughout the alley and obscured almost everything. She still heard gunshots and ricochets all around the alley, so running away wasn’t safe yet. She knew nothing about the man with the red mask, but she was willing to bet he wasn’t bullet-proof. This was Gotham, not Metropolis.

As if on cue, the vigilante spoke up. “Two down, two to go! Give up now and I’ll let you live. Maybe. Probably. Nn-yeah, actually… I’m still thinking about it.” He chuckled, menacingly. “Give me a reason to change my mind.” The vigilante’s voice had a metallic ting to it because of the helmet-like mask. But that wasn’t what Dora noticed most. It was the masked man’s persisting tone of playful nonchalance, as if this whole situation was just a game to him. Was he actually enjoying this?

“Shut the fuck up!” Sergei shouted.

Daring to peer around the dumpster, Dora saw Sergei firing off shots at the masked man, who ran around the alley, rolling and flipping like a gymnast to avoid the bullets. He reached the dead-end wall, but instead of stopping, he ran up the wall—as if gravity didn’t affect him. Sergei and Yevy’s bullets burrowed into the bricks where the masked man’s feet had just been.

“You must’ve been doing this a long time, Sergei,” the masked man taunted as he vaulted off the wall and onto the fire escape. “And you still can’t aim worth a shit.”

Sergei snarled, enraged. He reloaded his gun as fast as his mangled hand was able and fired at the masked man again as he climbed up the fire escape. Rounds ricocheted off the bricks and metal railing, and none seemed to land a hit on the masked man. He moved so fluidly, Dora noticed, amazed. Like a fish through water, a snake through grass, a bird through branches—a bat through darkness.

Rochelle saw that herself. “... the fuck, that dude’s quick!”

“Yeah…” Dora watched his movements closely. She recalled the masked man saying he wasn’t part of Batman’s crew, but he certainly moved like he was.

Yevy reloaded and joined Sergei in another barrage of gunfire, though his aim wasn’t any better. The masked man finally reached the top of the fire escape, ran along the ledge of the building, dove off, and somersaulted through the air.

He descended on Sergei and Yevy from two storeys above, the back of his jacket flapping—Dora couldn’t help but think like the wings of a bird.

“Aaaah-oof!”

He landed on top of Yevy with a sickening crunch, who emitted an emasculated yelp. The masked man bounced to his feet, unaffected by the fall. He kicked Yevy across the face, ensuring he was knocked out. Yevy’s blood glistened on his boot. He turned to Sergei. “Now it’s just you and me, old man.”

Sergei brought his gun around to shoot the masked man, but— _Smack! Pow! Whomp!_ One, two, three blows. Sergei was disarmed and brought to his knees.

“Say uncle,” the vigilante said, towering above him.

Sergei managed to smile, even with a fat lip, a broken nose, and loosened teeth.

“You think you’ve got me, son? You think you’ve beaten me, huh? Well, let me tell you something. I work for the Black Mask, kid. He’s got the GCPD and the DA in his pocket. Sure, they’ll arrest and book me, but guess what, asshole? I’ll be back out before you take your next shit.”

The masked man scoffed. “Wow, old man, I guess you’re right. If I let the cops take you in, you’ll just fuck the system and hit the streets again. Same goes for your low-life friends, right?”

He took a knee and leaned toward Sergei, his red mask so close to his face, Sergei’s ragged breath fogged the glossy surface. “There’s no permanent way to stop you, is there?”

“I’ve been doing this for twenty years, kid. I’ll die before the law stops me.”

“You know what? That’s a great idea. I guess I’ll have to kill you.”

Sergei laughed so hard he began to choke. He quickly caught his breath and spat blood on the ground.

“Empty threats. That’s the problem with you Bats,” he wheezed, “you beat the shit out of us but you all can’t commit. Can’t finish what you goddamn start. You and your bat-buddies will never clean up Gotham for good because you’re all a bunch of pussies, too afraid to get your hands dirty. You won’t fucking kill me.”

The masked man stood up, chuckling. “Did you forget already, geezer? I told you, I’m not part of Batman’s crew.”

“Then who do you work for?”

The masked man reached into his jacket and drew a gun, spinning it with a flourish. “Myself.” He cocked it.

_Pow!_

Sergei fell to the ground, a bloody red hole where his eye had just been.

“ _Aeee!_ ” Rochelle shrieked until her breath gave out, scrambling away from the dumpster they were hiding behind until she hit the wall. Frantic and cornered, she heaved, trying to catch her breath, then finally vomited.

Dora didn’t move from where she knelt by the dumpster, lucidly aware that she wasn’t having the same reaction as Rochelle. She stared at Sergei’s blood, flesh, brain matter, and skull fragments splattered on the ground just a few yards away.

But she felt numb. She felt nothing.

“Dora!” Rochelle gasped, having caught her breath.

Dora looked up from Sergei’s corpse. The masked man stood over them. Lightning flashed behind his silhouette.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She could hear it pounding in her ears. This close she could smell him. The leather, the sweat mingled with rainwater, the gunsmoke. A shiver ran down her spine and she cradled a still unconscious Holly closer.

“Are you guys okay?” the vigilante asked.

“Dora, we have to go!” Rochelle shouted. “This man is dangerous!”

“Not to you,” he said, holstering his gun and holding up his hands.

“You just killed a man!” Rochelle snapped.

“He deserved it,” he growled back.

Hesitant, Rochelle approached Dora, without turning her eyes away from the masked man. “Come on! Do you have your phone? We have to call the police!”

The masked man shrugged. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

Dora studied the man for a long moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. “Yeah, okay, Rochelle,” she finally said, taking a step away from the vigilante but not without a last lingering look. “I’ll call the cops, but not with you and Holly around. Getting into it with the police could cost your visa and really piss off Holly’s pimp. He works for Black Mask.”

“B-but... Dora...” Rochelle stammered.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, but take Holly to the clinic and get her checked out, just in case.”

Rochelle’s face was lined with concern.

“Just go, I’ll sort this out,” Dora insisted. After finally getting a look of affirmation from Rochelle, Dora hoisted Holly’s limp body onto her back.

“If I don’t hear from you in half an hour, I’m calling the cops myself,” Rochelle said to Dora, but she was looking at the vigilante as she said it.

“Fine,” Dora said, and she watched Rochelle shamble out of the alley with Holly on her back.

As soon as Rochelle and Holly were out of sight, the vigilante asked. “Are you alright?”

Dora glowered. “I said I’m fine.”

The masked man reached out and placed his gloved hand on her chin. For some odd reason, instead of flinching, Dora made no move to stop him. He turned her head from side to side as she clenched her jaw tightly. Dora took the opportunity to inspect him as well. There were no face-like features on his red mask—only two glowing white slits for his eyes, with a furrowed brow molded above them. Dora could only assume he was assessing the injuries on her face.

With his thumb, he wiped some blood from her lip, making her wince. His glove was rough on her skin. “How’s your head?”

Dora touched the back of her head, where it had hit the ground. There was a painful bump, but her hand come back with no blood. “I’ll live.”

“Yeah. You’re tougher than you look. You know how to take a beating.”

Irked, Dora spat blood onto the ground. The red swirled and dissolved into the puddle. “No woman should know how to take a beating.”

“Good point,” the masked man said, with a nod of respect. “Why did you stay? Could’ve ran off with your friends.”

“You killed people on my property,” Dora said. “I need to see this through.”

“Not many people have the stomach for this.” The man gestured at Sergei’s limp, leaking corpse. “It’s interesting that you do.”

Dora’s mind instantly rewound to all the times she had seen things bloodier and more gruesome than this. “I was here for the quake. And I worked at the Park Row clinic during the gang war. It got pretty ugly. Uglier than this.”

“Must’ve, if this doesn’t bother you.” The vigilante stood.

“Wait...” Dora’s throat was suddenly very dry. She swallowed, and amazingly her heart seemed to settle back into its rightful place in her chest. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Red Hood.”

“Red Hood?” Dora repeated. Strange name. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she had heard it before.

“Yep,” he said, tapping his faceless red mask... helmet... thing. “So where’s Monty?”

Dora froze at the mention of her father’s name. “He’s... dead.” Though it was miniscule, Dora noticed Red Hood falter—something changed about the way he held his shoulders.

“Who’s in charge of the Alibi, then?” He jabbed his thumb over at the backdoor of the bar.

“Me. His daughter.”

“You? Really?”

“Yeah, me.” Dora was almost offended by his reaction. Looking at her, it probably wasn’t obvious at first glance but was it really so hard to believe her father was white?

“What’s your name?”

“Dora.”

“Didn’t you just say you were a nurse or doctor or something?”

“I was in nursing school while I worked at the clinic, but dropped out to run the Alibi when my dad was murdered.” Her eyes flickered to Sergei’s dead body. “Long story.”

“Make it short, then. Who killed him?”

“Black Mask. These guys helped him.” She gestured at the unconscious men splayed around the alley.

“Didn’t know Black Mask made house calls.”

“It was just after the gang war ended. He had just taken over the Odessa Mob, and he wanted to see their... rackets for himself. He made an example of my father for the rest of the businesses on the block.”

Red Hood actually seemed caught off guard. He hesitated a moment, fingering the chin of his mask. “What was Black Mask’s cut?”

“A third, but Sergei and his boys rounded up to an even half to fill their own pockets. Why does it matter?”

“It matters because from now on you pay protection to me.”

Did she hear that right? “What?”

“I said you owe _me_ protection money now,” Red Hood said, deadpan. “Fifteen percent, by next week.”

Dora’s jaw hung open. Was he serious? What kind of vigilante was he? Batman and his crew never asked for compensation for saving people’s lives... they just did it. Why, no one knew, but nonetheless they were the guardians of Gotham—with varying degrees of success.

Red Hood seemed to have read her mind. “Oh, you thought I was some sort of hero or something? Sorry, I don’t work pro bono.”

This vigilante wasn’t part of Batman’s crew, she remembered him saying. He worked for himself. He had just saved her and her friend’s lives from a bunch of thugs... and hadn’t hesitated to kill one of them. No... _execute_ was a better word. But he was only asking for fifteen percent off her books, so he wasn’t as bad as Black Mask, or even Kosov before him...

And he had protected her. Actually _protected_ her and her friends from men intent on hurting them. So was that even a racket?

But Dora knew she didn’t really have a choice either. After Black Mask learned about what happened to Sergei and his boys, Dora would need this guy watching her back. Cops seemed to be the least of this Red Hood guy’s worries, and she didn’t have a Bat-signal handy to sic Batman on him.

“Okay,” Dora finally said, trying to project confidence.

“Good,” said Red Hood.

 _Blam! Blam! Blam!_ Faster than she could blink, he had drawn his gun and shot Mikhail, Yevy, and Rafi each in the head. They were unconscious before, but there was no doubt they were dead now.

“What are you doing! They were already down and out!” Dora cried, recoiling but finding her back to a wall.

“What? You’re going to start feeling sorry for them now? After they tried to rape you and your friends? Come on, I’m just making sure they don’t bother you, or anyone else, ever again.”

“You didn’t have to do that!”

“I most certainly did,” Red Hood said. “I have to send a message, make an example of these guys. Do me a favor and look away, will you?” He holstered the gun inside his jacket and drew his knife—a long Ka-Bar with a serrated edge. Dora recognized it because it was standard issue for the Marines; her father had owned a few.

“What for— _Oh my god! No!_ ”

But Dora didn’t look away. She watched Red Hood stab his knife into Sergei’s neck and slice away the flesh. In seconds, he had cut through the esophagus, trachea, and arteries, and reached the spine. He wedged his knife between the vertebrae and twisted—SNAP! The head separated from the body completely.

Dora sat there, slack jawed, as Red Hood rifled through some trash bins, the blood draining out of Sergei’s severed head until he found a plastic bag and stuffed it inside. “Now’s probably a good time to call the cops,” he said.

“You want me to what?” Dora asked, still incredulous at what she was seeing.

“I said call the cops. Tell them what happened here.”

“You want me to tell them you killed all these guys?”

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be too hard, right? You seem like an honest girl,” Red Hood said, climbing onto a fire escape ladder, toting the bag holding Sergei’s severed head. “And tell anyone who’ll listen that Park Row and this whole neighborhood belong to me now. And if anyone tries to get in my way, they’ll end up like this asshole and his buddies here.” He stopped climbing for a moment to look back at her. “See you around... Dora.”

Dora pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose to get a better look at him, but in the second it took her eyes to refocus, Red Hood was already gone.

-

v0.3.15.1


	4. Blood Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The GCPD arrive on the scene and find it odd that Dora is unfazed by the dead bodies. Detectives Bullock and Montoya question Dora's involvement with Red Hood.

Dora felt numb and cold. She stared at the corpses strewn across the ground, captivated by the macabre scene. She couldn’t help but think back to what she had seen in the aftermath of the earthquake, and then again during the gang war. She had hoped to never see things as gruesome as all that again, but here she was, having just relived a microcosm of it all. She lost sense of time as the scene seared itself into her memory. She didn’t know how long it had been since Red Hood had left the alley. The rain had stopped almost as soon as she lost sight of him, but the puddles remained.

Red puddles. Steady streams of blood oozed out of the bullet wounds in Mikhail, Yevy, and Rafi’s heads, mixing with the blood still gushing out of the shredded stump that was Sergei’s neck.

A shiver ran up Dora’s spine, not caused by the cold. She spat onto the ground. Her own blood was lost in the red rivers that branched out over the alley’s uneven ground.

Then the numbness began to fade and she started to feel... something. It took her a minute to realize what that feeling was. _Relief_.

Dora would no longer have to deal with Mikhail, Yevy, Rafi, or Sergei ever again. Killing people was wrong... but... there was no doubt in her mind that Gotham was better off without them. Red Hood had not only saved her life and rid the world of a few scumbags, but it suddenly dawned on her that he had all but avenged her father. The men he had killed tonight did not murder her father but they were certainly complicit.

Did she really hate Sergei and his men all so much that their deaths made her feel good? Satisfied? What had she become?

What had Gotham turned her into?

A flash of lightning illuminated the alley for a split second. Thunder crashed shortly afterward, so loudly it resounded in her bones. But there was no rain.

Instead, she cried.

That sense of relief was gone, and disgust had finally blossomed in its place. Disgust not at the scene, but at herself. She was crying for the second time that night, but this time the tears weren’t of grief, they were of shame. Her parents didn’t raise her this way. Her _father_ wouldn’t want her to relish in death, even in those responsible for his own.

Tears still streaming down her face, she looked down at her hands. She hadn’t killed anyone, let alone touched any of the corpses, but she was still red-handed—literally. The run-off from the rain made it impossible to escape the blood. She knew she could wash it off, but for some reason she felt guilty. The blood hadn’t stained her hands; it had stained her soul. She had _prayed_ for the deaths of these men.

Taking a deep breath and wiping the tears away, Dora steeled her resolve and convinced herself again it was all for the better. She stumbled back into the Alibi through the back door, still dizzy from hitting her head, the cracked lens in her glasses made navigating to the kitchen harder. After washing her hands of blood in the sink, she made her way into the office and slumped into the chair, exhausted. She rummaged around the papers on the desk until she found her phone, smearing blood all over the month’s receipts and invoices. Dialing 911 left red smudges on her phone’s screen. She hadn’t washed her hands well enough.

“ _Gotham City Emergency Hotline. What’s your location?_ ” The dispatcher sounded bored.

“Park Row and Nolan Street. The Alibi. It’s a bar.”

“ _Are you safe?_ ”

“Yes... it’s over now.”

“ _What’s over? What’s the emergency?_ ”

“I just witnessed a murder. Or, uh... Murders? Four. I saw a man kill four people.”

There was a pause on the other end. “ _Can you describe the attacker?_ ”

“Tall...” Dora was almost embarrassed to say what came next, but she said it anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to be as descriptive as possible. “In, uh, really g-good shape,” she stammered, recalling Red Hood’s broad shoulders and chest—and the effortless way he moved. “He was wearing a red mask and a black motorcycle jacket. And he’s armed. He has a gun and a knife on him.” Nausea churned her stomach as she remembered Red Hood cutting off Sergei’s head.

“ _Wait, did you say he was wearing a_ mask _?_ ”

“Yeah, a mask, but more like a helmet. It covered his whole head. And it was red. He calls himself ‘Red Hood.’ ”

There was another pause. “ _Okay, it seems like we already have several units en route to your location. What’s your name?_ ”

“Dora Silva.”

“ _Is there anyone else with you?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Okay, Dora, is this the best number to reach you?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _Do not leave your location. Do not touch anything. Police officers, detectives, and EMTs will be there shortly._ ”

“Thanks.”

“ _I’ll stay on the line until—_ ”

But Dora hung up. Talking to a stranger over the phone wouldn’t make her feel any safer. In fact, despite having just witnessed the murder of four men and the murderer himself escape, she already felt safe. The men that had been harassing her for months, the men that had killed her father... were dead.

# 悪

Dora was wet, cold, and shivering despite the mylar blanket and cup of coffee the EMTs had given her. If anything, the blanket was making things worse. Its foil-like surface reflected the strobing red and blue lights from the police cruisers, making the light bounce off the sterile compartments and equipment of the ambulance whose tailgate she was sitting on. The lights made her dizzy. It was probably more the fault of her concussion, but her broken glasses weren’t helping. She took them off and popped the scratched lens out of the frame.

_There._ _Now I’m only a little less than half blind,_ she thought, shoving her glasses back up her nose. She replaced the ice pack on the back of her head and flinched at the pain.

“You alright?” someone asked.

“I’m fine.” The concussion must have affected her attention span. Dora’s eyes and mind refocused on the two detectives standing in front of her. One was a big white man. Large and bearded, and sporting a fedora. The other was slim Latina, who looked like she weighed only half as much as her robust partner, though she was still a bit taller than him. It took Dora a second to recall their names. Detectives Bullock and Montoya.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Montoya said, her eyes skimming her notepad. “The victims, who have been extorting you for months—”

“Years,” Dora corrected. That’s if they included Sergei and his boys extorting her father under Kosov’s regime.

“Right, _years._ ” Montoya amended her notes. “Those guys tried to sexually assault you, uh... ‘gang-rape’ you. Then out of nowhere, a man with a red mask comes down from the rooftops and beats them all up... Kills them each with a gunshot to the head, then as an afterthought, cuts off the head of their leader.... Sergei, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Dora said. And it was true. Ninety percent. She had omitted Rochelle and Holly’s involvement, but it was better the cops didn’t know about them. “He calls himself Red Hood. And the guys he killed worked for Black Mask.”

“Red Hood, huh?” Bullock scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “Great, I fucking knew it. We have another fucking Bat in town. As if we didn’t already have enough.”

Montoya frowned. “No, killing is not the Bats’ MO.”

“Every person this red mook has killed tonight was not just a criminal, but a mobster or a gangbanger, with career-long rap sheets. The Batman hates those types the worst. Plus, did you forget about Batman’s girlfriend the Huntress? She wasn’t above killing people when she first started out.”

Montoya looked to Dora. “Did this Red Hood guy mention any affiliation to the Batman?”

“No,” Dora said. “He was actually insulted when Sergei assumed he was part of the Bat crew.”

“Then maybe he’s not a vigilante,” Montoya said, turning back to Bullock. “Maybe he’s a rival gang-leader trying to take out the competition. We’ve had plenty of masked mobsters. Orpheus... Tarantula.”

“ _Bah!_ You think this red brain donor is going to run drugs, guns, and hookers in Gotham? All on his own?”

Montoya shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a crew. Orpheus and Tarantula each had dozens of thugs backing them during the gang war. And about fifteen years ago, there was a crew running around Gotham calling themselves the Red Hood Gang. Maybe they’re trying to make a comeback.”

“If he’s got a crew, why’s he doing all the wet work himself then? Huh?”

Montoya pointed back down the alley, where the CSIs were taking photos and cataloging evidence. The bodies still had not been moved, only covered by white sheets. “Maybe he’s just good at it and gets his hands dirty so someone else won’t.”

“Maybe he just likes it, the sick fuck,” Bullock added.

“Okay, good point. But whatever the case, nothing makes street-thugs fall in line better than a boss with a bite to match his bark. I mean, look at Black Mask. Not afraid to get his hands dirty—kills personally. And he runs this town. At least until tonight.”

At that, Dora suddenly saw an image of Roman Sionis, also publicly and notoriously known as Black Mask, stomping on her father’s chest with his $3,000 Italian loafers. She had heard her father’s ribs snapping. She shook her head, dispelling the flashback while biting back the urge to cry again, but the panging had taken root. Her head and chest throbbed anew.

“Montoya, I really don’t think this guy is going to have any buddies in the underworld,” Bullock said, gesturing madly, “because he’s fucking killing them all! The city _just_ survived a gang war! This mook is going to start another and get us all killed!”

Montoya shrugged again, pocketing her notebook.. “Hey, it’s just a theory.”

“Pardon me, detectives.” A CSI technician had come up to them. His blue gloves were covered in blood. “We’ve finished collecting evidence. We’re waiting on your command to bag the bodies and send them off to the medical examiner.”

Bullock turned around to take one last look at the carnage in the alley. Although the scene was already chiseled into her mind forever, Dora couldn’t help but look past his shoulder. The bodies had been covered with white sheets, but they were tinged with red at the edges. It had stopped raining, but in the time that it took the police to arrive, the run-off had rinsed away most of the puddles of blood that had transfixed her so tightly before.

By morning, Dora knew that it would look like nothing had ever happened back here. It had been the same with her father’s murder. Even with its bloodstains invisible, this alley would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Bullock gave Montoya a quick glance, and in response, she nodded at the CSI tech. “Yeah, go ahead. Take them away.”

Dora stared as the CSI tech removed the sheets covering the bodies. They grabbed them by the arms and legs and stuffed them into large black bags, a task that required two people. It was easier to pack away Sergei’s body, given that his head wasn’t in the way. Dora’s mind flashed back to Red Hood stuffing the severed head into a plastic grocery bag he had pulled out of a trash bin.

“You know what bothers me, Montoya?” Bullock said to her, but his eyes were locked on Dora. “This girl says she witnessed these guys, the four of them, killed in cold blood. Gangland execution style. One of them had their head fucking _sawn off_ right in front her eyes. Yet... she’s not a dribbling mess. Any other broad would’ve pissed herself.”

Montoya gave Dora a long hard look, adding to Bullock’s penetrating gaze. “Not shaken. Not in shock. Provided a detailed and coherent eye-witness account. Yeah, could’ve been rehearsed.” Then without notice, Montoya’s speech switched to Spanish, directed at Dora. “Sabes que todavía tiene que venir a la oficina y firmar una declaración formal? Hay penas para mentiras. Me entiendes, mija?”

Dora grimaced. That offended her, as if the detective thought she couldn’t understand her in English.

“No soy tu hija,” Dora said bitterly. “But look. I’m a nursing student. Well, I _was._ And I’ve seen dead bodies before. Touched them. During the gang war a few months back, No Man’s Land the year before, I helped out at the Park Row Clinic. Ask Dr. Thompkins. I saw a lot of Blue Boys hurt bad. _Bad_. I’m proud to say I helped a few. I’m also ashamed to say I saw a few pass away.” She trained her eyes on Bullock—the Blue Boys were what the GCPD called themselves when the government had abandoned Gotham after the earthquake and they stayed behind to act as a posse of vigilantes. “I saw a lot of messed up shit after the quake and during the gang war, detective.” A half-truth, Dora admitted to herself. She had dealt with wounded patients and some that had died on the gurney or even on arrival, but they were mostly stab and bullet wounds—no decapitations, and hardly any cops. It all still haunted her, but she still hadn’t settled on what she was feeling about Sergei and his men’s deaths—and that shameful uncertainty bothered her more than actually seeing them killed.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Bullock said, pushing Montoya out of the way, and putting his face directly in front of Dora’s. She could feel his breath on her face and the heat from his cigarette, still hanging from his lips. She couldn’t help but breathe in some of his smoke. Reminded of Mikhail, she frowned in disgust, but did not look away.

“I’ve been working for the GCPD for almost twenty years,” Bullock told her, twin streams of smoke coming out his nostrils. “I’ve seen some shit. Some _fucked up_ shit, little girl. You have no fucking idea. I was here for the gang war and for No Man’s Land too, but this is _by far_ one of the most fucked up nights we’ve ever had since. The scanner has been lighting up all night. In just a few hours, this Red Hood motherfucker has single-handedly killed almost most two _dozen_ people, left behind _five_ decapitated bodies—”

“This makes six,” Montoya corrected.

Bullock backed away from Dora a few inches and rolled his eyes, incredulous. “God help me. _Six_ fucking heads, and guess what? The night’s just started. The first call about this guy came in just _two_ hours ago. Imagine what this psycho can do with a whole fucking night, kid. He’s almost as bad as the Joker.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dora asked.

Bullock turned around and spat his cigarette onto the ground. He stomped on it and looked at Dora with contempt. “Because even though this Red Hood guy saved your life, I don’t want you to forget that he’s dangerous. He wasn’t acting in self-defense. He didn’t have to kill these guys to save your life. He’s not a fucking hero. He’s a cold-blooded _killer_ , kid.”

-

v0.3.15.1


	5. Paint the Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dora tries to move past her bloody encounter with Red Hood, she can’t help but notice the effect he’s had on Gotham. Blowing up fronts and murdering criminals seems to be working.

Chapter 5: Paint the Town

Two days later, Dora went to One Police Plaza to make her official statement—Red Hood was that big of a deal, there was a task force dedicated to taking him down working out of the GCPD’s central headquarters in Old Gotham. Dora arrived at the giant building only to find the entrance roped off by yellow tape. There was a crime scene right on the front steps. Cameras flashed and people chattered in the large crowd that had gathered as close as they could get. At the fringe of the scene, news reporters discussed the event in front of cameramen. The crowd was so dense, Dora couldn’t see what the fuss was about.

“Hey, you!” Bullock stomped up to her from a food truck he had been standing by, tossing aside his half-eaten gyro.

“What?” she asked.

Bullock snarled. “What do you mean ‘ _what_?’ Your boyfriend dropped off a little present for the GCPD.”

She had no idea what boyfriend Bullock was talking about because she had been single for well over two years. However, the familiar contemptuous look on his face quickly made her realize he was talking about Red Hood—and she didn’t like that.

“What’s going on? Why the crowd?”

“As if you don’t know,” Bullock spat impatiently.

Bullock was too bitter to tell her, but after he escorted her inside the GCPD building—roughly by the arm—Montoya took over and shooed Bullock away. He snorted and stomped away, muttering under his breath. Although Dora wasn’t fond of either of them, she prefered Montoya over Bullock. She was still wary not to be fooled by their good cop/bad cop routine. At least Montoya believed Dora hadn’t deliberately sicced Red Hood on the men harassing her—she hoped.

While recording her statement and filling out a stack of paperwork with some mousy intern from the DA’s office, Dora learned from Montoya that Red Hood wasn’t keeping every head he took as a personal trophy. Regarding the incident she had walked in on when she arrived at the GCPD, Montoya told her—over her morning coffee—that it appeared Red Hood had dropped off the head of a corrupt businessman named Adam Hunt on the GCPD’s doorstep in order to send a message. This Adam Hunt had allegedly—and Montoya emphasized the word _allegedly_ —laundered money for many of Gotham’s criminal organizations. He had been on the GCPD’s watch list for _years_ , but they could never gather enough evidence for a solid conviction, let alone enough to charge him with any legitimate crime. When the DA intern left, Montoya offered her theory that Hunt’s lawyers were just too damn good, and revealed that she suspected the ADA and a few judges were in Black Mask’s pocket.

“I guess Red Hood doesn’t care about the burden of proof,” Montoya told Dora while they filled out yet more paperwork in the bustling bullpen. Uniform cops, detectives, and jail guards were scrambling around the office, shouting at perps, into their phones, radios, and each other. “This Red Hood guy considers himself judge, jury, and executioner. I’m not sure if he’s deranged or just sick of waiting for justice to be done. If the latter’s the case, I can’t blame him cuz kinda get it. Pero no le dices a Bullock que yo te dije eso.”

Dora didn’t promise anything, but she and Montoya shared a lingering look that made Dora think Montoya was as frustrated with the corruption and ineffectiveness of Gotham’s law enforcement as she was.

After filling out all the paperwork, the detectives set Dora loose and didn’t bother her again. She assumed they were too busy chasing after Red Hood, who was _literally_ painting the city of Gotham red and watching it burn.

Day and night, everything Dora heard and read on the news was about either Red Hood, Batman, or Black Mask—or any combination of them. It was a veritable free-for-all, each one pitted relentlessly against the other two. However, it was plain to see that who everyone feared most was Red Hood. As the newcomer, he was the most unpredictable and therefore the most dangerous. There had been _dozens_ of arsons in his name. In some cases vehicles and whole buildings were _blown up_. Gotham’s citizens were afraid to leave their homes for fear that any public place they visited or transportation they used might be rigged with one of Red Hood’s bombs. The city was being terrorized and demolished, one building at a time, by an unhinged pyromaniac in a red helmet. Wherever Firefly was nowadays, Dora mused, he was being put to shame; and Batman was struggling to keep up.

What the media didn’t know (and apparently the cops were keeping quiet) was the fact that most of the buildings that were bombed were fronts, hideouts, drug labs, brothels, casinos, speakeasies, and stashes of Gotham’s worst gangs. Not to mention the steady stream of severed heads that were dumped almost _daily_ on the steps of One Police Plaza were those of crime bosses and their highest-ranking lieutenants. Dora knew this because it was all the Alibi’s customers would talk about. She even noticed that the shadiest and most delinquent of her clientele weren’t coming around the bar as often.

It was plainly obvious that Gotham’s criminals were scared shitless. They were scrambling, like rats trapped in a box, panicked into a frenzy, desperate for survival.

Despite the seemingly rampant destruction reported in the news, all the innocent Gotham citizens that lived on Park Row and the other impoverished neighborhoods were beginning to feel safer. Outside of Red Hood’s own crimes, organized and petty criminal activity in Gotham had actually _decreased_ since his debut. In the week after the massacre in the alley, it seemed like Red Hood was gaining more notoriety, yet getting further away from being caught.

The streets were buzzing with support for Red Hood, and Dora noticed it everywhere—from bargoers in the Alibi to people waiting in line at Starbucks and all over social media. The common topic of conversation now was whether you should support Batman or Red Hood. The people that favored Red Hood had taken to wearing red hoodies and baseball caps. Still, some people insisted neither Red Hood or Batman were the answer, believing that the GCPD and the courts were the best way to fight crime and protect the innocent. Because they were legal.

But to Dora, there could be no mistake. Her neighborhood of Park Row was now a safer place to live. Whenever she needed proof to reassure herself, all she had to do was open her bedroom window at night and take a moment to listen to the city. She no longer heard drug dealers and addicts yelling at each other in the alleys, the hookers and johns catcalling on the street corners, or gunshots and sirens echoing through the air—all things she used to hear on a nightly basis before Red Hood came along were now gone. No one had to take her word for it, everyone in Park Row noticed how quiet it had become.

“Well, he comes on a little strong, yeah—but you can’t deny the effect he’s had on the town, Dee,” Rochelle told Dora one night at the Alibi after last call. “Crooks are too scared to try anything. Maybe that’s just what it takes in a shithole like Gotham. The city’s so infested with monsters, we needed a bigger one on our side. Batman and his crew weren’t enough. And I don’t know if it’s just me, but it seems like he’s sighted around here in Park Row more often than anywhere else.”

Dora found Rochelle’s about-face somewhat confusing, remembering just how afraid she had been when she first encountered Red Hood, the same night Dora had. When Dora asked her about that, she answered, “Well that was before I realized what he was doing, y’know? He’s made life much better for Ben and me.” (Ben was Rochelle’s fiancé.) “I’m not sure what Red Hood did, but he came around our building once, then our landlord suddenly wasn’t threatening us to call ICE on me anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s great, I guess,” Dora replied. The jury was still out in her own mind. In the days since Sergei’s murder, she had felt the relief that came from knowing she didn’t owe Black Mask half her profits every month, but it was only because of a vigilante that was basically a terrorist and mass murderer, nevermind that he only targeted other criminals. She still had nightmares and recurring pangs of guilt about what happened that night. And she hadn’t forgotten that she owed Red Hood protection money instead of Sergei and Black Mask now, however much less it was. She didn’t want to think what Red Hood was capable of if she didn’t pay up. What made it worse was that for some reason she still hadn’t quite figured out, she had hidden that fact from both the police and everyone else, including Rochelle and her own family. Dora had no idea what kind of trouble she would be in if they found out. It was like she was in the middle of another gang war, and she had barely survived one already.

After relieving Rochelle for the night, Dora was in the process of locking up, when someone knocked on the Alibi’s front plate-glass window. Dora saw Holly’s face beaming at her through the smudged glass pane. She undid the locks and let her in.

“Damn, Dee. How many locks do you have on this door?”

“Six deadbolts,” Dora replied, exasperated as she locked them all again. “Can never be too careful in this neighborhood... But hey... I haven’t seen or heard from you all week.” She noticed that Holly was favoring her right leg as she walked in. “Are you okay? What happened to your leg?”

“Oh? This? It’s nothing. Half-healed already.”

“Why haven’t you been replying to my texts?”

“Texts?” Holly looked confused for a moment. She felt around her pockets for a phone but came up with nothing. An amused expression appeared on her face. She said, “Oh. You only had my old work number. I threw that phone out.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t need it anymore. Gotta get myself a new phone, I guess...”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m no longer turning tricks!” Holly pulled Dora into a tight hug, giddy with laughter, a bubbly noise that Dora had never heard from her before. Holly seemed like a wholly different person.

“What? Are you serious?” Dora pulled Holly away, and looked her up and down properly. The younger girl wasn’t dressed in her usual outfit—a form-fitting dress that left nothing to the imagination. Tonight Holly was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a t-shirt—and no make-up whatsoever. She looked like the sixteen-year-old girl that she actually was—poignantly reminding Dora of just how far Carla could fall if she didn’t get her act together soon.

“Serious as a heart attack.” Holly laughed again. “This Red Hood guy, Dee… He saved my life.”

“Yeah, I was there, remember? He saved my life too. And Rochelle’s.”

“No, I mean aside from that first time. You know Stan, right? My pimp?”

 _Uh oh._ Dora felt her stomach drop. She could only nod, but the feeling of dread was already weighing down her stomach. _Red Hood killed him._

“Well, Red Hood came around and… just…” Holly rolled her eyes, but the smile never left her face. “He tore Stan a new asshole, let’s just say—”

“Is Stan still alive?” Dora had to ask. _Does he still have his head?_

“Yeah, Dee, don’t sweat it. He’s still breathing.” But Holly snorted and shook her head, smirking. “Barely.”

“And you saw him? You saw Red Hood do it?”

“Yeah! After taking care of Stan and his goons, he rushed all the girls out, and rigged the brothel to blow.” A blush bloomed on Holly’s face as she massaged her ankle. “I tripped down the stoop and hurt my foot, so he picked me up, threw me over his shoulder and fucking _parkoured_ his way down the block until we were safe!”

Taking a second to imagine it, Dora found herself impressed. The next second, she actually felt a twinge of _jealousy_ . Rochelle and Holly had both been helped by Red Hood, both once more than she had. But almost immediately she was ashamed of herself. _Get your head out of your ass. Think straight. That dude is dangerous._

Then something else occurred to her. She frowned. “Wait. Hol, what are you going to do now? With Stan gone, you’re out of a job, aren’t you?” If Holly were a little bit older, she would offer her a job at the Alibi, but it was already bad enough that she had let her drink there.

“Not quite.” Holly grabbed a bottle from the bar shelf and some tumblers from the counter. “Red Hood took over. With Stan gone, he set the girls up in a new place, with a new front, and a new madam. We have a _madam_ , now, Dee! Not a slimy old pimp! How classy is that? Her name’s Ma Gunn. I’ve never heard of her before and she’s super old, but she’s legit as fuck. Turned tricks herself back in the day, was in the high-end escort biz for years. She’s Australian and posh as fuck, and doesn’t traffick and doesn’t force anybody on dates they don’t want to go on.”

“That sounds great, but if you’re not going on dates, what kind of work do you do for her?”

“I’m too young for dates she says, so I take care of matchmaking and scheduling mostly.” Holly put a cup of vodka in Dora’s hand, her smile beaming brighter. “Ma’s still having girls work the corner and the bars and her new brothel but she’s trying to set up an escort service for the whales and high rollers. I set up dates, book drivers, restaurants, hotels... I guess I’m basically a sex concierge now.”

Holly clinked glasses with Dora and downed her shot in just one gulp. However, Dora didn’t do the same. She never had a taste for vodka thanks to Sergei and his men. “Congrat—” Dora was interrupted by a loud bang, muffled somewhat by the walls.

Holly wheeled around. “What was that?”

“I think it was the backdoor. Sometimes it swings open when it’s windy.”

Holly frowned. “I was just outside. It’s not windy tonight, Dee.”

Dora recognized the sound of the back door slamming closed. Someone had come into the kitchen. “Maybe it’s Rochelle,” Dora wondered aloud. “Or my mom.” Those two were the only other people than Dora that had keys to the Alibi. “I’ll check it out.” Dora made sure her pepper spray was hanging from her belt loop, then grabbed the aluminum baseball bat from under the bar. She had almost reached the kitchen door when it swung open. A short person burst out of it.

It took Dora a moment to recognize the figure because they were wearing an orange hoodie with a backpack strapped tightly to their back. “Carla?” Dora gasped.

Her little sister slid to a halt, pulling off her hood, her sneakers squeaking on the floor.

“ _Carla_? Your sister?” Holly asked, head bobbing between her and Dora. “Aw, she’s so cute, Dee. She looks just like you. But, oh… Hey, what’s wrong?”

Carla was frantic, sweating bullets, out of breath, with a bone-chilling look of dread on her face.

“What are you doing here?” Dora asked. “What’s wrong?”

Her little sister didn’t answer any of their questions. Instead she vaulted over the bar and pulled open all the drawers and cabinets.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dora yelled. “You’re not allowed back there! Stop!”

“Where’s Dad’s gun?” Carla shouted desperately. She fumbled underneath the counter. “Where is it?”

“What the heck do you need Dad’s gun for?”

“I…” Carla looked up at Dora, finally holding still for moment, but the quivering tears in her eyes made it clear she was panicking.

She looked her age now, or less, Dora thought; every part of her was shaking. “Carla, talk to me,” she asked as gently as she could. She handed Holly the baseball bat and held Carla’s face, wiping the sweat from her forehead and the tears from her cheeks. The girl trembled in her hands. “Talk to me, it’s okay.”

Carla didn’t look at Dora, but at Holly instead, blinking her wet eyes in confusion.

“That’s Holly. She’s my friend. She’s cool,” Dora explained.

Carla whimpered and shrugged off her backpack. “I’m sorry, Dee…” She unzipped it. Dora looked inside and her jaw dropped.

Holly peeked over her shoulder and gasped, “Holy shit.”

The backpack was stuffed full of bricks of white powder, tightly wrapped in plastic.

“That’s a lot of fucking coke!” Holly exclaimed. “What the fuck, Carla? How’d you get your hands on all that?”

“I was running product for my crew, but then some guys from another crew tried to steal it… I ran… but I don’t know if I lost them. I’m so sorry, Dora!”

“You’re part of a _gang_?” Dora didn’t know whether to feel angry, sad, or disappointed. What was certain, though, was how worried she was about her little sister. “Carla…”

But a loud banging penetrated the walls again. Carla yelped and jumped out of Dora’s grasp. “No! They found me! Fuck, Dora, we have to get out of here!” She grabbed a handful of Dora’s t-shirt and pulled her toward the front door. “They got guns! We have to run!”

 _Ptnng! Ptnng!_ _Womp!_ The sounds made it clear that the men after Carla had shot the lock or hinges off the back door. The sound of several heavy footsteps came from the kitchen.

Dora looked at the six deadbolts locking up the front door all the way across the bar. She cursed. At the rate it usually took her to fumble through them, they would never escape in time. They were trapped.

-

v0.4.17.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to remind you guys that if you're enjoying the story, you don't have to wait for me to post new chapters here on AO3. 16 chapters have already been posted on my FanFiction and my DeviantArt accounts.


	6. Outlaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thugs break into Dora’s bar, hellbent on killing her sister for stealing their drugs. Desperate, Dora might have to cross a line she never thought she would.

Chapter 6: Outlaw

Loud banging penetrated the walls again. Carla yelped. “No! They found me! Fuck, Dora, we have to get out of here!” She grabbed Dora’s t-shirt and pulled her toward the front door. “They got guns! We have to run!”

_Ptnng! Ptnng!_ _Womp!_

The sounds made it clear that the men after Carla had shot the locks off the back door. They were inside the kitchen. Dora looked at the four deadbolts locking up the front door of the bar and cursed. At the rate it usually took her to fumble with them, they would never escape in time. They were trapped.

Holly had realized the same thing and hissed in a loud whisper, “No time to run! Just hide! Now!” She pulled Dora and Carla down behind the bar. They both hit the floor hard.

The kitchen door swung open.

Dora heard footsteps and voices. She guessed at least three men entered the bar, but she didn’t dare peek over the counter to be sure.

“Where the fuck is the little bitch?” said a man’s voice.

“Well, _look_ for her, motherfucker!” said another man. “She’s gotta be in here. Check the bathrooms and under all the booths and shit. Don’t just stand there looking at me like a retard! Ahora, cabron! Andale!”

Dora put her finger to her lips, looking at Carla and Holly with wide eyes, urging them not to make a sound. Carla squirmed, tears running down her cheeks. A sob gurgled in her throat, but Holly clamped her hand over her mouth. Her other hand gripped the baseball bat tightly. Dora mimed holding a phone to her ear, but Holly shook her head. Understanding, Dora bit her lip, cursing their luck. They couldn’t call the cops. Holly had thrown away her work phone, Carla’s phone was with their mom because she was grounded. Dora’s own phone was charging in the office along with the landline, which might as well have been a million miles away.

They only had a few seconds before they were found. After the bathroom and office, behind the counter was the next place the thugs would look. Dora belly-crawled to the end of the bar. She reached up and jabbed the screen of the cash register. The drawer popped open with a sharp clatter. She cringed, forgetting that it always made that sound when it opened. It was already too late.

“Oye, behind the bar!”

Without standing up, Dora reached under the cash tray and fumbled around the back of the drawer.

Carla shrieked then. A thug had come behind the bar and spotted them, leering. Holly tried to swing her bat at his legs, but Carla had latched onto her in fright, limiting her reach. “Dora!” Holly cried for help desperately.

“Hey, she’s here! She’s got friends!”

Dora finally grasped the handgun under the tray and pulled it out of the drawer. She cocked it and took aim. “Get out!” she shouted. Her thumb flicked off the safety and her grip tightened.

But the thug was armed too. When he lifted his gun, Dora reacted.

She pulled the trigger twice. _Pow! Pow!_

Wood splintered behind the thug, but he yelped in pain and grabbed his arm. While missing one shot, she had landed a hit with the other. She was glad she had forgone her glasses today and chosen to wear contacts instead, or else she would have missed both.

“The cunt has a gun!” the wounded thug yelled as he crawled away, returning a few haphazard shots with his lame arm. The girls all hit the floor, and all his shots missed.

“Puta!” spat the head thug. Dora recognized him by his distinctive Santa Priscan accent. “Light them up!”

_It’s assholes like these guys that give us Priscans a bad rep._ But Dora had no time to dwell on that because a barrage of gunfire showered the bar. Liquor bottles on the shelf exploded, raining glass and alcohol on the three girls. The cacophony was deafening. Holly and Carla both screamed. Dora felt like screaming too, but she held it in.

A cold chill squeezed her heart as panic set in. She had six rounds left in her Colt 1911 now, and only eight more in an extra magazine shoved in her pocket. Her father had taught her how to shoot, but she wasn’t good enough to hit three _moving_ targets. Targets that shot back—and he had never taught her how to return fire from cover. She prayed the tenants upstairs had heard the gunshots and had called the cops already.

“Just give them back their dope, Carla!” Holly shouted over the gunfire.

Carla fumbled with the backpack, shaking with terror, and shoved it onto the counter. “You can have it!” she shouted, but frightened as she was, it came out as a hoarse croak. “Take it! L-leave us alone! Please! _Please!_ ”

The gunfire stopped for a moment. “Grab the bag, dude!”

“No way, man, she’ll shoot us if we get too close!”

“Don’t be a pussy! Do you think that little bitch can shoot better than us? Go get the crack or I’ll fucking shoot you myself, pendejo!”

Dora heard a thump—she guessed it was one thug hitting the other to prod him forward. Footsteps sounded as he approached.

Her heart had been pounding in her chest, but it suddenly jumped into her throat. She could feel it pulsing in her temples, hear it beating in her ears, in rhythm with the thug’s footsteps. Then it stopped, replaced by an ascending screech.

_Pow! Splat!_

Dora realized that the screeching sound was herself screaming, muffled by her deafening heartbeat and an overdose of adrenaline surging through her veins.

As the thug had come up to the bar to retrieve the bag, she had popped up out of cover and shot him.

In the face.

Gunfire erupted again. She had ducked back down just in time.

“Dora!” Holly cried. “What the fuck?”

Dora’s nostrils flared as she sucked in breath, after breath, after heavy breath. The gun smoke burned her lungs. She didn’t dare breathe through her mouth. She was too dizzy. She would vomit otherwise. Her resolve would break.

“ _Dora!_ ” Holly yelled again.

Staring straight ahead, she tried to stop the room from spinning, but it was no use.

_I just killed a man. I took a human life. I’m a killer. I’m a murderer._

The red mist sprouting behind the man’s head kept replaying over and over in her head. Being so focused on him, she didn’t count how many thugs were in the bar.

“What the fuck! If they weren’t going to kill us before, they’re sure going to do it now!” Holly shouted.

Dora finally spoke, cold reason tumbling to place. “Think, Holly! They’re going to kill us anyway even if we gave up the drugs.”

“Hey, stop!” the lead thug said. “ _I said stop!_ You’re wasting ammo, dumbasses. Tontos, pare! Dios mio!” His men obeyed, but even after the guns stopped firing, Dora could still hear them echoing in her head. “Now listen, puta, let’s make a deal. We won’t kill you.”

“Shit, they heard us,” Holly cursed, whispering now.

The thug continued. “If you give yourself up, we won’t hurt your friends. But as for you—”

“Esa perra mató mi hermano y jodio mi brazo!” one of his men said.

“What the fuck did he say?” Holly asked Dora.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered. It really didn’t, though she understood. The man she had just killed was the brother of the man she had shot in the arm. And he wasn’t in a mood to negotiate.

“Chill, homie!” snapped his boss. “Look,” he said to Dora again, “don’t be selfish. You stole our dope and killed our friend, so we can’t let you go, but your friends can still walk free.”

“Voy a joder esa puta, y luego voy a matar. Muy despacio, escuchame,” grunted the wounded thug.

_Yuck,_ Dora thought, _is every thug in Gotham a fucking rapist?_ She heard Holly whimper and Carla sob. Carla had curled herself up into a fetal ball, making herself as small as possible—completely oblivious, almost catatonic. She sobbed, mumbling something in Spanish Dora couldn’t hear or distinguish. A prayer, she realized. Carla didn’t speak Spanish often—the only time she did was to recite Catholic or Santeria prayers from memory that their abuela had taught them while growing up.

It was hopeless, Dora thought. Even if she gave herself up, these men would never let Holly and Carla go. They would have seen the thugs’ faces, and the thugs wouldn’t trust them not report to the police.

_If I give up, we all die. If I fight… we_ might _die, but…_

Dora sank back down and gripped her father’s pistol tighter. It was a Colt 1911 he had used while he served in the Marines, in the Gulf War. His initials were etched into the wooden handle. Even against bleak odds, Dora knew her father would still want her to fight until the bitter end—especially if it was for family.

“Come on, girl! We ain’t got all night. This deal isn’t going to last forever!” For emphasis, the thug fired a warning shot. It hit the wall of the bar. Shelving broke and liquor bottles fell and shattered. Holly shrieked. A bottle tumbled off the counter and hit Dora on the shoulder, narrowly missing her head, but it did not break. She grabbed the bottle. _Valdushka. Vodka._ Rubbing the sore spot, she got an idea. “Holly, give me a lighter.”

“I don’t have one,” Holly sniffled.

“Carla?”

But Carla didn’t respond. She was fully catatonic now, not even praying anymore. Fear had completely shut her down. Dora remembered her father telling her about this. Carla was shell-shocked. She wasn’t a soldier on the battlefield, but she was a teenage girl staring death in the face for the first time, so why couldn’t it happen to her?

“Check Carla’s pockets,” Dora ordered.

Holly frisked her, but Carla didn’t seem to notice. Dora popped the vodka bottle open. She didn’t have to look at the label because its smell told her it was 50-proof. Perfect. She looked around for a dry bar rag, but there none to be found.

_Dammit._ She ran a hand through her alcohol-drenched hair in frustration. Making a Molotov was a stupid idea anyway. She was covered in alcohol, so lighting one could easily set her on fire too.

But a thought struck her. _I’m drenched in alcohol._ And she had nothing to lose. She grabbed a shard of broken glass from the floor, the hem of her shirt, and tore off a piece to make a rag.

“Here.” Holly tossed Dora a lighter.

Looking at the lighter, Dora felt a sharp pang in her chest. It was her father’s Zippo; Carla must have nicked it from his footlocker. Maybe they had a chance. It seemed their father was looking out for them from beyond the grave tonight.

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?” Holly asked, looking at the items in Dora’s hands.

“I am. If you see an opening, take it and get Carla out of here.”

A thug shouted, “Okay, that’s it. Enough waiting. I’m going in, man. Cover me. Now!” His friends opened fire again.

Dora stuffed the piece of her shirt into the bottle of vodka and flicked the lighter on, holding the materials as far away from herself as she could. The rag caught flame immediately—but so did her hand.

Gritting her teeth to bite back the searing pain, she endured long enough to toss the bottle over the counter.

She heard the bottle shatter and a _woosh_ as the alcohol ignited. The thugs shouted curses in surprise. Taking the chance, she grabbed the nearest water-soaked rag to douse the flames on her hand before it could spread up her arm and engulf her. Then she drew her father’s gun and ran out from behind the bar. “Go!” she yelled at Holly.

As she ran, she counted five men. One was dead, one was wounded, and three were standing, but distracted by the table that had caught on fire in front of them.

Dora took aim and fired. After two shots, the fire died down to a blue smolder, and the thugs pointed their guns at her. Behind them, she saw Holly drag Carla into the kitchen unnoticed. She cringed internally—she could have escaped with them. The additional distraction was in vain, but she couldn’t dwell on her mistake because she was being shot at again.

Returning fire, she aimed as best as she could while running to the other side of the room. By the time she slid into cover behind a booth, the pistol’s trigger had gone stiff. There were no more rounds in the magazine.

Out of the five shots she had fired in her mad distraction, Dora counted only one hit, and it was center-mass. She didn’t dare peek over her cover to check if the man she had hit had actually gone down. The booth she was behind gave her less solid cover than the bar had and no route for escape. It was four against one now. The thugs would kill her before the cops arrived, if in fact any of her neighbors had called them already. The police didn’t respond the last time guns were heard by the bar, the night Red Hood saved her life—Dora had to call them in herself. Gunfire was common place in Park Row and the police were useless; even Detective Montoya had admitted as much.

Dora lamented, but only for a moment, remembering that Carla was safe now, and Holly, too. If she died now, at least it was worth it. She took a deep breath, then reloaded and cocked the pistol. It was her last magazine.

“You’re really dead now, puta!”

“Yo sé!” she shouted back. She kissed the handle of the pistol, where her father had carved in his initials. _See you soon, Papi._

But the thugs didn’t open fire. “Oye, escucha,” one of them said to another. “Es la policia?”

Dora heard something strange too. A humming coming from outside the bar. As it grew louder, she would have guessed it was some type of muscle car, but it had to be the police. However, she heard no sirens and the humming turned into a roar. Light bathed the bar through the plate glass window in the front, but it was white, not red and blue. Headlamps, Dora realized. And the light was getting brighter.

_“LOOK OUT!”_ someone cried.

The roar died a split second before the Alibi’s plate glass window exploded. Shards flew everywhere in the wake of a _motorcycle_ flying into the bar.

The thugs jumped out of the way, but the one with the bullet in his gut wasn’t quick enough. The motorcycle barreled into him, sweeping him off his feet. The bike pinned him to the pool table behind him with a spectacular gush of blood. There could be no mistake. He was dead.

“Shoot him!” one of the others shouted.

Dora turned to the broken window and couldn’t believe her eyes.

Red Hood vaulted through the opening, so swiftly she almost missed it. No sooner had his boots hit the floor, than he juked and rolled, avoiding the thugs’ gunfire. In just a few seconds, he had crossed the room and wrapped his hands around one thug’s neck.

Feet dangling inches off the floor, the thug gurgled, not even able to gasp for breath because of Red Hood’s tight grip on his neck. The other two thugs shot at Red Hood, but he used the captive thug as a human shield. Bullet holes peppered the thug’s back, and when his friends stopped to reload, Red Hood snapped his neck and tossed his body at them. The two were barreled down, their guns falling out their hands.

“Enough foreplay.” Red Hood sounded playful. “Now it’s time for some _real_ fun.”

Frozen in shock, Dora watched him pounce on the two remaining thugs and give them a sickeningly brutal beat down. She couldn’t look away as their ribs were caved in and their faces were rearranged. As Red Hood focused mercilessly on one thug, the other tried to crawl away… but before he had gotten anywhere, Red Hood dragged him back and curb-stomped his face on the seat of a chair, killing him instantly.

The last thug laid broken and wheezing as Red Hood rolled his shoulders and massaged his bloody fists. Dora heard his joints and knuckles pop as he released a satisfied groan. He turned to look at her. “Dora.”

“Y-yeah?” she stammered, shocked that he remembered her name.

“Give me your gun.” He held out a large gloved hand.

She looked down at the pistol. Seeing the holsters on his waist and thighs, he obviously had his own, but she knew what he was going to do with it. Something in her mind begged her to say no, but she still found herself handing it over.

Red Hood gave the pistol an inspection. He de-cocked it and released the magazine, checking to see how many rounds were left. Seeming satisfied, he reloaded and chambered a round. He looked down at the one thug still alive.

“Pweath thon’th,” the thug begged with a broken jaw and shattered teeth. He held up a trembling hand.

But Red Hood didn’t care, of course. He brushed his hand aside and shot the thug in the face.

Dora released a shuddering breath. She felt like she had been holding it for hours. Relief washed over her. It was over. She was safe now, and so were Holly and Carla.

“What happened?” Red Hood demanded.

Her attention returned to the present. Red Hood had just spoken to her. She looked at him, staring into the glowing white slits of his faceless mask. She could almost _sense_ the stern expression on his face behind it. “Come on,” he said, “I don’t have a lot of time.”

She crawled out from behind the booth and took a seat. Her hands shook so badly she had to knit her fingers together to keep them still. She cleared her throat and explained. Hesitant at first, reluctant to relive the traumatic experience that had only _just_ happened, eventually the story spewed out in distinct detail. As she recounted, Red Hood walked around the bar, looking this way and that, over and under, crouching here and there, aiming down the sights of her father’s pistol. At certain points, he seemed to actually be reenacting what had happened.

When Dora finished, he said, “I’m impressed.”

She looked at him blankly. “What?”

“You killed a man, and wounded two more.” He chuckled. “You’re pretty scrappy for what? Five-foot-nothing and a buck-ten?”

_More like a buck-thirty._ “My father taught me how to shoot.” _But not well enough. Eight shots and only three hit their mark._ “That’s his gun you’re holding.”

Red Hood studied the pistol in his hand again. “Yeah, it’s a good weapon. I carry some M45A1s myself.”

“What?” She didn’t know gun models half so well as her father had. He had only taught her how to shoot them.

“Never mind. I’m going to borrow this for a while.” He holstered her father’s gun somewhere inside his jacket.

“But…” Dora stood. She wasn’t sure if she really wanted to refuse him, just after he had just saved her life. “Why?”

“So I can take the credit for killing these guys. Like last time.”

She frowned. “You mean the _blame_?”

Red Hood’s sculpted shoulders shook as he laughed. “Sure, call it blame. These guys’ hermanos are gonna want revenge, and you don’t want that shit-storm coming down on your head. As tough as you are—and believe me, you’re one of the toughest women I’ve ever met—I’m just better equipped to handle it.”

Dora wasn’t sure if he had meant to compliment her, but she shrugged it off. “But why do you need my father’s gun for that?”

“Well, that’s part of the shit-storm. I don’t want the GCPD pinning a manslaughter charge on you, just in case. I’m sure you don’t either.”

“Manslaughter? This was all self-defense!” She pointed at the man with the bloody hole in his face, the man she had killed. “They were trying to _kill_ me. And my sister! _And_ my friend!”

“Half the GCPD is still in Black Mask’s pocket, along with the district attorney. These guys weren’t part of my crew, so guess who they answered to.”

Dora was at a loss for words. Detective Montoya had been right about the corruption in the GCPD and the DA’s office. After all she had gone through tonight trying to stay alive, the courts would side with the assholes that tried to _kill_ her and the people she cared about.

“You get it now, don’t you? Why I do this?” Red Hood’s glowing white pupil-less eyes seemed to penetrate her mind.

She wanted to say yes, but she still wasn’t entirely convinced Red Hood’s approach was the best. Sure, Gotham’s criminal justice system was both corrupt and incompetent, but there were already people out there making up for it—people like Montoya, like the Bat Family.

Dora looked at the bodies sprawled all around her bar. Five dead men. She had only killed one of them, but bullets from her father’s gun were inside the other four. The Bats weren’t lawyers. They weren’t cops. They couldn’t save her from a manslaughter conviction and ten years in prison.

“Fine.” She frowned. “Just please don’t cut off their heads.”

Red Hood chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

She looked around her bar again—over the crime scene. “What should I tell the cops? If you want to take the fall, we need to get our story straight.”

“I was getting to that.” Red Hood walked over to Carla’s backpack full of coke, miraculously untouched by the hail of bullets that had struck the bar only minutes ago. He zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. “Just tell the cops you were being robbed by these guys, and I came in and saved your ass. It’s pretty much the truth.”

“I... I, um...” _I killed one of them,_ she wanted to say. _I didn’t need you to save me this time._ But she knew it wasn’t true. She would have been dead without him. But at the very least she was responsible for Carla and Holly still being alive. Red Hood couldn’t take credit for that. Even if she had to keep it secret from the whole world for the rest of her life, Carla and Holly would still know she didn’t need a _man’s_ help to defend her loved ones.

“You’ll need an alibi,” Red Hood said. “Hit me with your pepper spray.”

Dora almost asked what he meant, but he anticipated that and pointed at her waist. Instinctively, her hand went to her belt loop. Without looking, her fingers touched the carabiner clipped there, which held her keys and her small can of pepper spray. She cringed. It had been there the whole time, and she had opted to use a gun instead.

“Come on, do it,” Red Hood prodded.

With shaky hands, Dora unclipped the carabiner and aimed the small can at Red Hood’s faceless mask. “Are you sure?”

He chuckled, knocking on his helmet. “I don’t wear this red bucket _just_ for show. It has its uses. Go ahead.” He curled his fingers toward himself, almost taunting her.

Dora squeezed the nozzle, but Red Hood stepped aside. The squirt went over his shoulder and splattered on the floor. He snickered. He _was_ taunting her. “We have to make it look good for the CSIs. Come on, hit me now.”

She sprayed him again, aiming at the eye slits of his mask. This time he stood as still as a statue. This close, Dora could feel her own eyes water and nostrils flare from the caustic chemical, but Red Hood didn’t so much as flinch. He actually wiped the liquid off his mask and flicked the moisture away, as if Dora had done no more than squirted him in the face with a cheap water gun. It sprinkled on the floor.

“There. Now CSI will back you up.”

_Woopwoopwoop!_ Sirens. Finally. The police were close.

Red Hood turned his head/helmet toward the shattered front window. “That’s my cue.” Dora could make out faint flickers of red and blue light reflecting off the disparate surfaces of the bar. “Take care, Dora.” He lingered to look at her—a moment too long, she felt. It was awkward, but thankfully, he was already escaping through the kitchen before the blush had fully bloomed on her face.

Her heart was racing, almost as much as it had when bullets were flying only minutes earlier. Instead of the acute repulsion she should have felt sharing the same air as a cold-blooded killer, she felt... something else. _Gratitude_ , she thought. _No, something else._ Whatever it was, it made her uncomfortable.

-

v0.4.18.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap. 4,700 words. Can you believe that Chapters 4, 5, and 6 were originally only one chapter in my plot outline? Sometimes these characters just write themselves. They take control away from me and just do whatever they want. I hope you liked the action, guys. It's difficult to write.
> 
> I never intended this story to be a songfic, but whenever I sit myself down to write, I find myself listening to "A Wolf Amongst Ravens" by After the Burial. Whenever the song comes on shuffle, I always think of Dora and Jason, and the things they've been through living in a city like Gotham. I'm a kid from the streets as well, but I won't digress. Also, yes, before you the song makes your ears bleed, I am a metalhead. Deal with it.


	7. Into the Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The GCPD arrests Dora, suspicious of her connection to Red Hood. What can she say that will make them release her?

 

The jail cell was cramped—five feet by eight, probably less; Dora couldn’t be sure. The concrete walls were a dull gray, and so were the floor, the ceiling, and the steel door sealing her in. The fluorescent lights hummed above her, obnoxiously bright, but one bulb insisted on flickering and snapping incessantly. It was driving her mad and giving her the _worst_ headache of her life. She would have tried to rip it out of its socket if it wasn’t behind a metal grill.

 _So much for taking all the credit,_ Dora thought to herself. She massaged her temples as a bone-chilling shiver rippled throughout her body. She had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life.

She was cold, hungry, thirsty, and in pain. Her hair and clothes had dried, but she still reeked of alcohol from the thugs shooting up the liquor shelf behind the bar. The shredded hem of her stained tank top exposed her stomach and arms to the 70-degree chill circulating in the room. Her lower back ached because of the unyielding aluminum bench she was lying on. Dora knew these holding cells were purposefully constructed to ensure maximum discomfort.

Although the EMTs had cleaned and treated the burn on her hand, the pain seared every now and then as if it was still on fire. She wanted to regret making that Molotov cocktail, but she couldn’t. Without it, Carla and Holly wouldn’t have been able to escape the bar.

It had been eight hours, although she could only guess. The only way to keep track of time was the combination steel toilet/sink that automatically flushed itself about every thirty minutes. She knew because she had counted the minutes. But since then she had lost count of the flushes. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but just _couldn’t_ for longer than twenty minutes at a time. It wasn’t the lights, or the hard bench, or the toilet flushing, or the pain in her hand. It was the recurring flashes of blood bursting from human heads that kept shaking her awake.

In particular was the man she had killed.

The bullet was too fast to see but she should easily recall a hole appearing in his cheek, his head snapping to the side, and a misty red halo behind it.

She felt sick to her stomach, not for the first time since being locked in this cell. As her stomach heaved, Dora forced herself to think of something else. Anything else.

Her mind landed on Carla.

_Is she alright?_

Carla had escaped the bar, but Dora didn't know if she had gotten home safe. She and Holly could have run into another group of thugs on the way. That wasn't out of the question in Park Row in the middle of the night. And if she had made it home... It broke Dora’s heart thinking about how shell-shocked Carla had been—nearly catatonic. _She almost died. And she saw me kill a man. How long will it take for her to get over that? Hopefully she hasn’t talked to the police._

Detective Bullock wouldn't give her a phone call, so the worry was killing her—along with the anxiety of how her mother was bound to react. She couldn't be bailed out even if they had the money. Montoya had tried to emphasize that she wasn't under arrest. She was being _detained_ as a witness. Apparently in the GCPD’s messed-up way of operating, that didn't entitle her to the same basic privileges as a criminal.

A clatter came from the other side of the door. Dora sat up and popped the kinks out of her back as the door slid open with a sharp buzz. Bullock walked into the cell in a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Had enough?”

Dora wasn’t sure if she was happy to see him or not. “You interrupted my nap,” she said through a real yawn.

Bullock grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the cell. He led her out of the cell block, his grip never loosening. He was hurting her, aggravating the burn on her hand, but Dora didn't complain because he might cuff her instead.

He shoved her into an interrogation room and pushed her so hard into a chair that it nearly toppled over. Dora looked up at the camera in the corner, wondering if it was recording. Montoya entered the room as Bullock sat down at the table.

“Let's try this again.” Bullock put out his cigarette and tossed it aside.

Dora glared at him. “Okay.” Nothing had changed since before he had “detained” her— _hours_ ago.

Montoya picked Bullock’s cigarette butt off the floor and put it in the wastebasket. “You don't have to talk to us without an attorney present.”

“Shut up, Montoya,” Bullock snapped.

“It’s her Fifth Amendment right. We have to say it.”

“No, we don’t. She’s not under arrest.”

“It's okay,” Dora said, “I don't need the Fifth. I didn't do anything wrong.” Lawyering up implied she was guilty of something—which she was, but she wasn’t about to let anyone know that.

Bullock wasted no time. “Who is he?”

“I already told you. Red Hood.”

Bullock growled. “What's his real name?”

“I don't know.” _You think locking me up for however many hours would make me remember something I've never known?_

“Look, kid, it isn't a coincidence that the Red Mook saved your ass _twice_ in two weeks. We _know_ you are tight with him. Just give us his fucking name already.”

“I don’t know who he is. Haven't you heard? The whole neighborhood around Park Row is his turf now. Isn’t it the police’s job to watch our backs, not vigilantes?”

Bullock grit his teeth. He didn’t like that slight, but chose to ignore it. “Thirty square blocks of territory, but he still managed to know when you were in trouble.”

“My bar is in the middle of Park Row. You're a cop, you of all people should know how bad it gets on that street. They call it Crime Alley for a reason, dude. Red Hood’s a _vigilante_ , so yeah, chances are he was watching closely, especially in the middle of the night. Plus, those assholes shot up my bar for, I dunno, ten whole minutes before he even showed up—maybe a half hour before _you_ guys finally decided to.” She wanted to go on, but bit her tongue. _It’s no wonder we have half a dozen vigilantes running around the city. You guys suck at your jobs._

“Why’d they shoot up your bar for? What’d you do to piss them off?”

 _My little sister had some coke they wanted._ “I already told you,” Dora said, rolling her eyes. “They just broke in and started shooting up the place. Maybe they wanted to rob me. They certainly wanted to kill me. They were probably False Facers, looking for payback from before.” In truth, Dora suspected they were from the Latino United gang or Escabedo Cartel. The LU were enforcers and dealers for the cartel.

“Those asshats your boyfriend killed were members of the Escabedo Cartel, not the False Face Society.”

 _Knew it_. “What’s it matter who they work for?”

Bullock chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, you’re right, it doesn’t matter. Gangsters, pimps, judges, councilmen, CEOs... Your boyfriend kills whoever he wants. _Everyone_ wants payback.”

“Stop calling him that!” Dora finally snapped. “He’s not my boyfriend!”

“You know what? I think he is!” Bullock stood up and slammed his fists on the table. “You’re fucking the guy, aren’t you? Why else is he always saving your ass?”

“Always?” Dora was exasperated. Bullock jumping to conclusions was infuriating. “He helped me out twice! Just _two_ fucking times!” She held up two fingers, and wanted nothing more than to jab Bullock’s eyes to make him understand. Red Hood had saved Holly and Rochelle _both_ twice as well, but she couldn’t mention that without implicating them.

“I’m not stupid! And neither were those men that shot up your bar! They knew you are the Red Mook’s old lady, _that’s_ why they rained hell down on your head—to draw him out! Admit it! You’re fucking him! Tell me his name!”

“ _I have no idea who he is!_ ” she shouted. “I’ve never even seen his face!” For half a second she couldn’t help but wonder what was behind his mask—and that reminded her. “The dude took one step at me, so I pepper sprayed him! I don’t like him any more than you do, so fuck off, man! I just want me and my bar to be left alone!”

Bullock pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Come here, you lying little spic, you’re—”

“Bullock, enough!” Montoya pulled him away and slammed him into the wall. Dora was surprised. She was stronger than she looked.

“Get off of me!” Bullock shrugged her off.

“Back off the girl, Harvey, or I’ll tell Gordon you're harassing a witness.” Montoya’s deep brown eyes seemed to smolder. Dora had seen the same look in her mother’s eyes, and her sisters’. Maybe it was a Latina thing.

“She's not a witness, she's a fucking accomplice!”

“We don't know that yet.”

“It's right in front of your face, Montoya! Open your fucking eyes! We should book her now for obstructing the investigation!”

“Not without due diligence. Get out. _Now_.”

Bullock groaned and threw his hands up. “Fine. I'm done. I'm fucking done. I don't know why I bother. Get out of my way, I’m going home. I’m getting too old for this shit.” He shoved Montoya aside and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Montoya pinched her nose, releasing a tense sigh.

“How’d you get stuck with an asshole like that for a partner?” Dora asked. She was happier than ever for withholding the truth. Red Hood was probably right. If she had told Bullock that she had killed one of the thugs—even if it was in self-defense—he would have jumped to charge her with manslaughter, or worse. A trial would probably prove her innocent--probably--but she didn't have the time or energy to deal with Gotham's bullshit justice system.

Montoya straightened her jacket and took the seat across from Dora. “I agree with you. He’s an asshole. But he’s a good detective despite that.”

Dora scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t actually believe that—”

“Look, mija—”

“I'm not your fucking daughter.” She hated Montoya calling her that as much as she hated Bullock calling Red Hood her boyfriend.

“Sorry. Dora, look. If you don't speak up now, it could bite you in the ass later.”

“I already told you what happened. I already told you I don’t know his name, or what he looks like under that mask.”

“Okay, this guy’s real cool. I get it. He’s tall, he’s fit, he’s got a mask and can go toe-to-toe with Batman, Nightwing, even Mr. Freeze.” Montoya reached across the table and held her hand. Dora let her, but narrowed her eyes. “And he’s looking out for you more than anyone else. He’s got your back when no one else does. Dora, I know it seems like he cares about you...”

Dora pulled back her hand. “He doesn’t. I’m not...”

“... but don’t confuse his attention or your own gratitude for love—no es amor verdad...”

She couldn’t take it. Pushing off the table, she stood and ran her hands anxiously through her hair.

Montoya was wrong. Dora had no idea who Red Hood was, what he looked like, even his age. And of course, he didn’t like her _that_ way. She didn’t like him that way either. If anything, Dora was sure she annoyed Red Hood, having to be saved all the time. He probably had things he would rather be doing than saving her butt and cleaning up her messes.

But then she remembered just how much it looked like he _enjoyed_ beating the crap out of those thugs. How he enjoyed _killing_ them.

Dora took a deep breath and glared at Montoya. “For the last time. I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he looks like. And I am _not_ sleeping with him. Okay?”

Montoya steepled her fingers and studied Dora closely. “No me gusta mentiras. If you’re lying to us, Dora, when we catch him, you’ll be charged as an accessory to _every_ crime he’s committed wearing that mask. He’s _killed_ people, Dora, so you’ll be complicit. Do you understand what that means? You’ll be in prison for the rest of your life too. Would you really risk your freedom, _ruin_ your life, for somenguy? Por este hombre?”

Dora only glared at her. She didn’t want to say it again.

Montoya sighed. “Okay, mira. While you were in detention, I talked to the DA and he’s offered a deal. If you help us catch him, we’ll give you queen for a day. You’ll be immune to everything he’s done so far. But you have to decide now.”

For a moment, Dora thought it was insulting that Montoya believed that she would let her emotions, her feelings for a man, cloud her judgment—her morality.

But with a pang, she realized that Montoya was partly right. It had happened last night when she reached for a gun rather than her pepper spray. It was happening right now, she was lying to the police, denying that she had killed a man, and letting Red Hood take the blame instead.

But it didn’t matter. She didn’t have the information Montoya wanted. “Pass,” Dora finally said.

Montoya hung her head for a moment, disappointed, then nodded. “Fine.” She stood up and opened the door. “Then you’re free to go.”

Dora was halfway out when Montoya whispered, “Esta es tu última oportunidad. Espero que valga la pena.” She had said, _“This is your last chance. I hope he’s worth it.”_

And at that moment, Dora wished she did know Red Hood’s identity, because she hoped he was worth it too.

# 悪

The door opened with a loud buzz and clank. The police officer ushered her through. “Keep your nose out of trouble, kid.”

_I try, but trouble always seems to find me._

She walked out into the crowded lobby of the 99th Precinct, and was suddenly aware of how exposing her tank top was—sheer and torn, her midriff bare for everyone to see. Bullock and Montoya hadn’t given her a chance to grab her jacket when they “detained” her, let alone her phone or bag. Going back inside the bar would “contaminate the crime scene.” After hearing her story at the Alibi, Bullock had spat _“Bullshit!”_ in her face and shoved her into a cruiser. Montoya had to convince him to wait for the EMTs to treat the burn on her hand before they drove her down to the precinct. Looking out the plate-glass doors across the lobby, Dora dreaded the nine-block walk home—then the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She could sense _her_ coming.

_Fuck._

A short, slightly plump, but very curvy older woman approached Dora, sandals slapping the floor as she stomped, her earrings and bracelets jingling. She looked frazzled, a scowl on her otherwise pretty face, her long dark hair pulled into a messy bun with several fly aways.

“Dora Adela Marianela Aurelia Manuela Silva Alvarez!” Dora’s mother shouted her full name for all of Gotham to hear. The woman shuffled up to her, unleashing an almost incoherent babble of Spanish. “Dios mío, dige me todo! Voy a pegarte si no le me digas la verdad... Que pasó en mi bar? Ay, pero mira... O, mi niñita... Lo siento, perdoname. Ven aquí. Dame sus brazos. Está okay?”

Dora cringed as her mother Anita pulled her into a tight hug. But unlike many times before, the cold awkward embrace became warm and welcome. Dora found herself gripping her mother tightly and burrowing into the crook of her neck. “I’m sorry, Mami. Era una noche insana... voy a dijir todo, no te preocupas.”

 _It was a crazy night. I’m going to tell you everything, don’t worry._ But Dora knew she couldn’t share everything. She would have to give her mother the same bullshit story she had given Bullock and Montoya.

Anita frowned and made a concerned noise, fretting over the look of her. “Here, take my jacket. You can tell me everything later. I need to file a report about the bar,” her mother said. “For insurance y todo. Cuida sus hermanas.” She released Dora from another vise grip of a hug and strutted off. She was an attractive woman, several men, cop and perp alike, rubbernecked as she walked away.

Dora saw her youngest sister, Mercedes, fidgeting as she waited at the back of the room. The lobby of the 99th precinct was gray, dingy, sparsely decorated, and bustling with questionable people and intimidating cops. Carla sat next to Mercy, looking as vacant as she had the night before—like she was asleep with her eyes open. With earbuds in her ears, the environment didn’t seem to bother Carla as much as it did Mercy. The ten-year-old mumbled to herself, rocking back and forth nervously. Her eyes flickered to Dora, and she was immediately out of her seat, running to her. Dora desperately wanted to talk to Carla, but she couldn’t say no to her baby sister, especially when she was so anxious.

Mercy hesitated when she was close—Dora knew it was because of how haggard she looked, but she put a smile on her face and beckoned her to come forward. Mercy lunged forward and embraced her. Dora kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I know I was gone, but I couldn’t help it. Something bad happened in Papi’s bar.”

Mercy wrinkled her nose. “You smell like him.”

Dora clenched her jaw, remembering her father’s vices. “Yeah, there was a spill.”

“What happened?”

“I was robbed. Some bad guys tried to take our money. It happens, y’know? But I was saved by—”

“Batman!” her baby sister chirped.

Dora smiled and shook her head. “No, not Batman. This guy calls himself Red Hood.”

“Oh, yeah! I’ve heard of him! Some of my friends don’t like him. They say he’s a bad guy. Apparently, he kills people... and cuts off their heads...”

“He only kills _bad_ people,” Dora emphasized. “Men who deserve to die.” As soon as she said it, her mouth felt dry. Did she really mean that? It wasn’t something she should have told an impressionable 10-year-old girl.

Mercy’s frowned. “But Mami yells at Carla all the time for being bad! Cuz she hangs out with those bad boys who are in a gang, right?” She grabbed Dora’s sleeve. “Red Hood is not going to hurt Carla—is he, Dora?”

Carla’s eyes flicked in their direction at the mention of her name. She finally noticed Dora and pulled off her earbuds.

“No, he won’t hurt her,” Dora said. She held Mercy’s hand and guided her toward Carla. “Can you keep a secret?”

Mercy nodded eagerly.

“Red Hood... he’s my friend,” Dora said, only half-believing it was true. “And we’re good people. He won’t hurt us. He’s protecting us.”

“But he’s scary, Dora. He kills people. You’re really friends with that guy?”

Dora searched for an answer Mercy would understand, looking from her eyes to Carla’s, who was waiting anxiously. She finally said, “Sometimes, a hero has to be scarier than the monsters he fights. Sometimes that’s the only way to protect people: scaring off the bad guys. Batman is pretty scary, right? But he’s a good guy.”

Mercy frowned. “Yeah, but Batman doesn’t kill people, this Red Hood guy does.”

It was as if someone struck a match with Dora’s heart. _Maybe he should_ , she thought suddenly, inflamed. _If he did, Gotham wouldn’t be harassed by the same assholes again and again._

As quickly as the thought had sparked, it was doused by the disquiet on her baby sister’s face. She probably saw the anger on her face, leaving Dora feeling ashamed and sick to her stomach again.

Carla handed Mercy her phone. “Give us a sec, please.” As the little girl went back to her seat, Carla pulled Dora aside by a vending machine. “Are you alright?”

“Are _you_ ?” Dora asked. That seemed like the imperative question. But then she realized that Carla must have been as worried as she was, if not more. Dora had been the one to stay behind in the Alibi to take on four armed thugs, not Carla. Dora looked down at her bandaged hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. How’s Holly— _umph!_ ”

Without warning, Carla hugged Dora, so hard she forced the breath out of her.

“I’m so sorry for putting you in that position, Dee,” Carla lamented. Dora could feel her tears on her shoulder. “I’m out of that crew, for good. I’ll never talk to those dudes again. Don’t... just don’t tell Mami. Please! She’ll kill me!”

Dora pushed Carla back and wiped the tears from her eyes. “What about what I did?”

Carla sniffled and tilted her head. “What do you mean? Almost burning down the bar with a Molotov? That was actually kinda badass.”

“No, I...” Dora couldn’t finish what she wanted to say—” _I killed someone”—_ in the middle of a police station, with her ten-year-old baby sister within earshot.

“What?” Carla asked, confused.

_Does she not remember what I did?_

Maybe Carla had missed that part. She never saw Dora actually _kill_ that one thug. She had been huddled under the bar, having a panic attack, trying her best to ignore the situation and will herself out of existence.

Dora pulled Carla back in and hugged her tightly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll never tell anyone you were there.” She wouldn’t. She had to keep the lies she told the cops consistent. However, she felt guilty for considering her sister’s post-traumatic memory loss a silver lining. She could take Carla to the free clinic for therapy another time, but for now she just wanted to go home, take a shower, and sleep in her own bed.

“I love you, Dora.”

“I love you too, Carla.”

As if granting her wish, their mother approached, holding Mercy’s hand. “It’s nice to see you two finally getting along. Let’s go home.”

-

v0.4.18.1


	8. Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake the shootout, Dora's bar is in ruins. Is it worth rebuilding or should she just move on?

Dora ripped the orange biohazard sticker off the Alibi’s front door. Her mother Anita struggled to get the police tape off the gaping opening that would have been the bar’s plate-glass window, so Dora helped her out. “Hopefully all that was enough to keep out looters,” Dora said, balling up the tape.

“In this city? On Park Row? I doubt it,” said her mother.

The GCPD had taken two whole days to catalog the evidence, and the crime scene cleaners took another two to do their jobs—getting rid of all the blood and gore left behind by the bodies. Dora’s mother had given the cleaners keys to the bar so they could lock up the kitchen, office, and bathrooms when they were done. However, anyone walking down the street could have just stepped through the tarp that covered the broken front window and take anything they wanted from the main barroom. Dora did just that—it was quicker than walking through the front door.

“Dios mio,” Anita gasped.

The crime scene cleaners had stripped down the barroom to its bare bones. Most of the floor panels had been removed, baring the concrete foundation underneath. The upholstery from the booths had been ripped out, the couches and armchairs from the lounge area were gone, along with a lot of the tables and chairs. An entire wall had been stripped of its wood paneling, and another had a hole in it big enough to step through to the bathroom behind it. The copper piping was missing. Anti-septic fumes lingered in the air.

“What the fuck happened in here?” Anita stared at the hole in the wall. “And what happened to the pool table?”

When Dora had told her mother what happened that night, she had left out Carla and Holly’s participation, and had glossed over the gory bits—like the man that had basically burst like a water balloon and splattered blood everywhere when Red Hood’s motorcycle slammed him into the pool table. “You don’t want to know.” She felt her stomach lurch just remembering it. “At least they left the bar alone.”

Anita scoffed. The bar was still there, but the wood was cracked and pockmarked with bullet holes. The tap handles were bent or missing. The liquor shelf behind the counter was a ruin and the wall itself was swiss cheese; the mirror was shattered and all the shelves were gone, along with the bottles that had been kept there. In fact, _all_ the drinks were gone, including the kegs underneath the counter—and the area _still_ reeked of alcohol. Dora wondered if that was the work of the cleaners or looters.

“Some hero that Red Hood guy is.” Anita ran her hand across the scarred bar top, brushing off debris. “He saved us from getting robbed by those gangbangers, but it was the cops that fucked us over.”

“What do you mean?”

Anita sighed. “The crime scene cleaners took almost all of the insurance payout. The check is coming, but it’s not going to be very much. Paying to fix this place up will have to be out of our pocket mostly.”

Dora’s heart sank. She remembered the last time they completely renovated the bar—ten years ago. Her parents were in debt for _years_. It wasn’t until President Luthor’s relief bailout after the earthquake that they managed to get out of debt, but almost immediately afterward Black Mask took over the rackets on Park Row. The Alibi never stayed pristine and new for very long.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be alright,” Dora said, placing her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “We got through it... twice, three times? We can do it again. It’s about time, anyway. This place needed an update.”

Anita shrugged off Dora’s hand. “No. I don’t think we can do it this time around. We don’t have the money, mija. Black Mask took most of our savings with his damn racket, and the tenants are breaking off their leases because of all the crap that keeps happening here. Entiende, who wouldn’t move out with three murders on their doorstep—todo dentro un solo ano? We just don’t have the savings or the income to rebuild... We...”

_No, don’t say it, Mami._

But she did. “We have to sell it. Cut our losses and leave this place behind. Let it be someone else’s problem.”

“But this place, this whole _building_ , has been in our family for generations, we can’t just leave it behind...”

“ _Your_ family, Dora, not mine.”

That stung. A lot. _Te quiero, Mami, pero you’re such a bitch._

Dora’s mother had estranged herself from her father when they divorced. They had still co-owned the building, but split its management; Monty ran the Alibi on the first floor, while Anita became the supervisor and landlord of the apartments upstairs. When Monty died, the first thing Anita wanted to do was lease the Alibi’s space, but Dora convinced her not to and took her father’s place.

Taking a breath, Dora tried to settle her emotions. “How else are we going to support ourselves? This place is your _job_ , Mami—and mine. You’re not qualified to do anything else. You don’t even have a high school diploma!”

“Look here, mija, I managed this bar and a dozen apartments, and kept books on all of it, _by myself_ for over twenty years. Your father never did that shit, it was _me_. I have more experience than any fucking CPA or landlord or super in this city that’s worked as long. That has to be worth something to somebody.”

“Do you really want to demote yourself to being a super elsewhere, if anyone will even hire you, when you’ve been your own boss for such a long time? You’ll make much less money working for someone else than you will for yourself. Tu sabes eso. We need this place. As much as you don’t like to admit it, this bar wasn’t just Dad’s lifeblood, it’s yours too. It’s mine. Soy Silva, soy Latina, soy de Santa Prisca, como ti, Mami. Pero entienda que tambien soy Montgomery. Yo soy la hija de mi padre.”

_I’m a Silva, I’m Latina, and I’m Santa Priscan, just like you, Mom. But understand that I’m a Montgomery, too. I’m my father’s daughter._

Dora couldn’t tell if her mother was angry or sad, but either way she was on the verge of tears. “Yo queria mas para ti que esto.” _I wanted more for you than this._  “You were in college, Dora. You were supposed to be a doctor, not a bartender. And you threw it all away for this dump.”

Dora grabbed her mother’s shoulders. “Let Carla be the doctor in the family. Let Mercedes be a lawyer, a broker, or an engineer or the fucking president or whatever. I’m willing to sacrifice my future and invest it in this place to give them those opportunities. Like you and Dad did for me.”

Those words broke the levee. Anita rummaged through her purse and pulled out a tissue to dab her eyes with. “Fine,” she sighed, then cupped Dora’s cheek, looking into her face. “You may have gotten my looks, but you were always his daughter more than mine.”

# 悪

Over the next few days, Dora and her mother worked out the finances.

The insurance check was chump change like Anita had expected, so they got a loan from the bank. However, the bank only approved a small amount at a ridiculous interest rate because the Alibi’s accounting was a nightmare—poorly kept and inexact, with unexplainable losses and gains all over the place. Her mother was insulted, but Dora couldn’t hold it against her. Her mother was a great bookkeeper. Their books were only in such terrible shape because of Kosov’s and Black Mask’s extortion and money laundering over the years.

To supplement the loan, Dora had to take out a title loan on her father’s vintage 1969 Chevy Impala, which almost broke her heart. Sometimes she felt like the car was imbued with his spirit more than the Alibi itself. It, too, had been in the family for generations.

But even the loans weren’t enough. It took hours of debating, but Anita was finally able to convince Dora to mortgage the Montgomery building, meaning they no longer owned it—the bank did, but they still had most of the rights to the property.

And with that, they had enough to rebuild the bar, but at the cost of the heaviest debt Dora had ever known in her adult life. Just thinking about the exact number made her sick to her stomach. She knew _how_ she was going to pay it back—it was just daunting to think how long it would take _._ She couldn’t rely on the income sources she had once taken for granted. For once, she began to regret her decision to keep the building, but her father’s memory made her persevere.

Some of the Montgomery building’s tenants had already moved out in the wake of the shooting. More said they weren’t going to renew their leases. The remaining renters united, demanding lower rent or else they would move out as well. Dora negotiated with them, at first leaning heavily on sympathy, but she eventually had to convince them that Red Hood was their ally, not a threat. He would protect them if anything ever happened again—which was unlikely because by now every gangbanger, narco, and mafioso on Park Row knew not to mess with the Alibi, the Montgomery Building, or anyone living in it. She wasn’t certain of any of it, but she had to say something.

Dora and the tenants agreed to some terms, but it led her to think about Red Hood and if he would actually extend his protection to the tenants like she had promised, not just to her and the Alibi. Lately, it seemed like he was _actually_ protecting her, giving her an uncomfortable new sense of the term “protection money”—the literal sense. The monthly twenty-five percent she still owed him weighed on her conscience as much, if not more, than her other debts.

Red Hood had saved her life on two occasions, but she couldn’t forget that he was a criminal as much as he was a hero. He killed people, ruthlessly. Only bad people, but nonetheless, in the eyes of the law they were people that didn’t necessarily have to die. He ran the brothel that Holly worked at now, technically making him her pimp.

And Dora had learned through Holly what became of the cocaine Carla had brought into the bar—Red Hood had sold it. That didn’t sit right with Dora, but it relieved her somewhat to know that Red Hood sold the cocaine _not_ on the streets of Park Row, nor Gotham’s other ghettos like the East End, Backport, or the Narrows. Instead, he sold it to the spoiled gentry on the Upper West Side—they could afford the addictive habit and the rehab that eventually came with it.

Dora had no idea how Red Hood would react when she told him she couldn’t make her first payment, let alone the second, or the third, or possibly the fourth. The Alibi wouldn’t bring in revenue for at least a month because of the remodeling, and they wouldn’t make a sizable profit for _years_ because of the debt... And that was only if the bar actually survived that long. She wasn’t certain if any of her customers would return, especially if her dwindling tenants were any indication.

When Red Hood wasn’t shooting people and cutting off their heads, he seemed like a relatively nice guy... Would he understand? Twenty-five percent of zero was still zero.

As days went by, Dora started to doubt herself more and more, believing she had financially ruined her family, like her father almost did—ten years ago, during the last renovation. The risk had paid off then, but only because of a lucky government bailout had saved them from bankruptcy.

# 悪

“Well, this is the last of it.” Carla grunted as she pulled the crowbar back, ripping what remained of the ruined cabinetry away from the wall. The wood cracked, splintered, and finally snapped. She kicked the debris into a pile in the corner.

“Great, thanks,” Dora said, not looking Carla’s way, busy calculating the cut she had to make on the tile in her hands. She marked it with a pencil and lined it up with the whirring buzz saw.

“Why don’t you let the contractors do that?”

“Because they’ll charge us.” Dora swapped her glasses for safety goggles.

“So?”

“Every penny counts, Carla.”

“Be careful, Dee.”

“I know what I’m doing.” _Pretty much_. Dora was thankful she had learned a lot about home improvement from her father when she was younger, having helped him maintain the apartments upstairs as the super. Lesson one was how not to pay a professional for simple little tasks you could do yourself—if you weren’t lazy.

Satisfied with the cut, she blew the dust off the tile and set it on a sawhorse. “You should head home,” she said to Carla, looking outside. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“Mom said to pick up dinner on the way back. What do you feel like eating tonight?”

Dora fished through her pockets and pulled out a few crumpled bills. “Here, get something from Fausto’s.”

Carla looked down at the money. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Nope.” Dora picked up another tile and went to a corner. She knelt down and penciled in some reference marks. “I’ll be home in a few hours. The contractors are coming tomorrow, so I have to finish this today.”

If she didn't, and continued tomorrow with the contractors around, she would have to endure a pack of beer-bellied Santa Priscan illegals her mother insisted she hire (to save money) telling them what to do—whether it was because they thought a woman’s handiwork was inferior, or as a pretense to flirt with them.

“Um...” Carla hesitated. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. See ya. Don’t forget to get a quesadilla for Mercy, and a flan for Mami. You know how she loves those.”

Before her sister had even left the bar, Dora was back to work. She had lied to Carla. She knew it would take her more than a few hours to tile the floors—easily all night. But the bar was closed indefinitely, so she could sleep in tomorrow while the contractors worked. Even still, if she wanted to minimize how much she had to deal with them, there was no time to waste.

A few hours later, her back was aching and her knees were sore from all the crawling around... but she was only half done. She still needed to do the lounge area, the pool and darts area, and cut down more tiles for the odd corners by the doors to the office and bathrooms... She groaned as she stretched and popped the kinks in her back. She needed a piss and a cold drink of water before continuing—and maybe some coffee... or maybe some whiskey.

In the bathroom, she washed her face in the sink and ran some water through her hair. As she dried off, someone knocked on the back door.

Dora froze. The knock came again, harder. She fumbled for her glasses and slid them on.

When she started renovating the bar a few days ago, the first thing she had done was replace the wooden front and back doors with ones made of industrial-grade steel with magnetic RFID locks. She would have installed a proper security system, complete with cameras and an alarm, but there simply wasn’t enough money in the budget.

She poked her head into the kitchen. “Go away! We’re closed!”

Whoever was behind the door didn’t answer; they only knocked again, more insistent.

Maybe the new steel door was too dense to hear through. It might be Holly, Dora thought. She usually came around at this time of night when she got off work for a free drink and some conversation. But just to be careful, Dora reached for the crowbar Carla had been using earlier, wishing Red Hood hadn’t borrowed her father’s gun. She felt vulnerable without it now.

She unlocked the back door and it swung open. No one was there. The alley was empty; obscured in darkness except for a dim flickering lamp overhead. She gripped the iron bar tighter.

“Holly? I’m here,” Dora called out, stepping outside. “Hello?”

Gravel crunched behind her. She wasn’t alone.

Without stopping to think, Dora turned around and swung the crowbar.

-

v0.4.18.1


	9. Speakeasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without invitation, Red Hood visits the Alibi. Has he come to collect the money Dora owes him, or does he want something else?

 

Dora unlocked the back door. It swung open, but no one was there. The alley was empty; dark except for a lone humming and flickering lamp overhead. She gripped the crowbar in her hand tightly.

“Holly? I’m here,” Dora called out, taking a few steps outside. “Hello?”

The gravel crunched behind her. She wasn’t alone.

Without stopping to think, Dora turned around and swung the crowbar.

Red Hood caught it, inches from his head. The force of the catch reverberated through the iron back into Dora’s hand, causing her to hiss in pain and let go.

He gripped the crowbar tightly for a few seconds—she could hear the leather of his gloves strain. Although not able to see his face, Dora still sensed... was it anger? It radiated off him like heat from a furnace. She was about to apologize when he tossed the crowbar aside. “Kept me waiting long enough. I was about to leave,” he said, his stance relaxing. Whatever tension had been there dissipated. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

Her heartbeat was rapid. She had broken into a sweat, but Dora wasn’t ashamed to admit it. “Yeah, dude. I thought you were another one of those thugs.” A look up and down the alley confirmed he was alone. No bodies. No blood. No thugs.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, get in here.” Dora pulled him inside. She was paranoid. The cops were likely staking out the Alibi, watching her like hawks. The last thing she needed was camera footage that would corroborate Bullock’s asinine theory. “What’s up? Why are you here?” She already had an inkling why.

“Checking in. Did the GCPD give you any trouble after I left?”

Frowning, Dora wondered how much to tell him. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, except...” It wouldn’t do him any good to know about the detectives’ suspicions, so she just said, “We made a real mess that night, and the GCPD thought the best way to clean it up was to tear up the place.”

She led him out of the kitchen into the main barroom. Red Hood whistled, taking it all in. “Yeah, you’re not kidding.” He walked over to the corner with the jukebox. “Hey, at least they left this old thing.” He wiped some sawdust off the machine. “Oh, what’s this? That’s unusual...”

“What?”

He jabbed at some buttons, flipping through the CDs loaded inside. “Silverstein, Underoath, Saosin, Dead Poetic, Deftones... This isn’t the typical dive-bar playlist. You like hardcore metal?”

Dora was impressed that he even knew the proper name of the genre. “Oh, yeah. Nobody ever uses that thing, so my dad let me put my own CDs in there. For whenever we’d hang out after hours. He actually closed down the bar for my quinceañera.”

Red Hood scoffed. “You don’t seem like the party type of girl.”

“I’m not. I  _ hated  _ the traditional quinces my mom threw me. Forced me to wear a floofy pink dress and everything. Eugh. So next week, my dad rounded up the local hardcore kids to jam, mosh, and headbang. And gorge ourselves on cake and pop. That’s how the scene is in Crime Alley.”

“Very cool of your dad. Not many parents condone that kind of music.”

“Yeah, my dad was a great guy.” Saying so prodded a dull ache in her chest. “I want to do the same for my little sisters when they turn fifteen. My dad would’ve wanted that.”

Red Hood took a look around. “So I take it you’re going to rebuild the place, then? That’s going to cost a shit load of money. How much was the insurance payout?”

 _I fucking knew it, he wants a cut._ “Yeah, about that... Look, Red Hood, I... I don’t know how to say this, but... I’m sorry, I can’t...”

Red Hood put his hand on her shoulder; she immediately stopped stammering. “Yeah, I guessed money would be tight, so don’t sweat it. You know that coke your little sister almost got you killed over? I sold it.”

“Yeah, I know. A friend told me.” Dora knew the gesture was meant to be soothing, but she stiffened at his touch.

Red Hood had read her reluctance. “What else was I supposed to do with it?”

 _Throw it away, that’s what any sane law-abiding person would do._ It then occurred to her that Red Hood didn’t abide the law. And it was hard to gage morality in a city like Gotham.

“It brought in some decent cash, so consider us even for a while,” he said. He withdrew his hand, but not without letting it run down arm to her elbow. “That should let you get back on your feet, right?”

Dora was extremely conscious of his touch. It felt like electricity was surging through their contact; her heart thumped loudly. “What, really? You’ll let us... Um... wow. How much was it all worth?”

“About $250,000, give or take.”

“ _What?_ Carla was running around Crime Alley with a quarter million dollars on her back? Her crew might as well have painted a target on her!”

Red Hood made a frustrated noise, something between a groan and a growl. “Yeah, I know. The LU likes using kids as runners. Black Mask’s crew is no different. That’s the kind of crap I’m trying to stop. People will always want drugs, but they should at least have enough decency to keep kids out of it.” He took a few deep breaths, collecting himself. The eye-slits in his mask seemed to glow brighter. “Crime isn’t a disease, Dora, you can’t cure it. You can’t abolish it. It’s human nature. But you _can_ control it, keep it in check, and keep it safe. I want to put an end to the darkest parts of Gotham, so that people who want to ruin their own lives don’t ruin anyone else's.”

“How are you so sure that will even work?”

“Look at Las Vegas, Atlantic City, and New Orleans. Gambling is legal there. Heck, look at Prohibition a hundred years ago. You could argue that gambling and alcoholism can lead to addiction and financially ruin someone’s life, but those cities’ economies benefit from it. They turned it into an industry, and their citizens have jobs because of it. All over the world, some type of drugs and prostitution are legal and regulated, so it keeps even the workers and consumers in those industries safe.”

Dora had never thought of it that way. She began to ponder the implications when she noticed Red Hood removing his jacket. “What are you doing?”

“I’m assuming since you’re here by yourself in the middle of the night, you have work to do that can’t wait for tomorrow. I’ll give you a hand. So you get it done quicker. Is that alright?”

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to—um...” She would have argued, but Red Hood was undressing in front of her and she really didn’t want to stop him.

The leather motorcycle jacket had hidden a light flak jacket with a varied assortment of pockets and straps for guns, magazines, knives, and all kinds of other tactical military gear. It must have had some type of deceptively hidden armor plating in it because it made a heavy _thump_ when he dropped it on the floor. His utility belt and thigh holsters came off next.

“Whoa,” was all Dora could say.

“Yeah, I know. My gear’s pretty bulky.” He twisted his waist and popped the kinks out of his back.

But that wasn’t what Dora had “whoa-ed” about. _Holy crap, he’s fit as fuck…_

Without the jacket and vest, Red Hood seemed to lose a hundred pounds (though his gear probably did weigh that much for all she knew). The armor had made him appear bulkier than he actually was. Without it, it revealed that he had a slim lean build, and the clever stitching of his skin-tight black shirt accentuated his three-dimensional torso. The contours of his sculpted shoulders, chest, and stomach were not hidden by the fabric.

“So where do I start?” he asked, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles.

It was suddenly unbearably hot in the room. “I was, um... tiling the floors. The stuff is there. I’ll show you how to do it in a sec, but would you, um, excuse me?” Before he could reply, Dora hurried into the bathroom. She went to the sink and splashed her face with water, willing herself not to think the things she was thinking. _He’s a criminal, don’t forget that. You’ve got work to do, so focus._ She flushed a toilet for appearances.

When she came back out, Dora noticed that Red Hood had removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves. This was the first time she had ever seen his bare skin... and it was relatively fair, lighter than her own dark olive skin. He had large hands and muscular forearms. They were clean, but he had callouses all over his palms and knuckles—some were red, suggesting that he had given someone a pounding recently.

Dora set to work, showing Red Hood how she wanted the tiles done while trying to look at him as little as possible. She instructed him to take the pool and darts area, just so she wouldn’t feel the electricity buzzing on her skin when he was nearby.

The task flew by quickly, aided by Red Hood turning on the jukebox. He hammered, plastered, cut, and drilled to the rhythm, something Dora thought was cool. He knew the lyrics to some of the songs she liked, too. Fortunately, it wasn’t endearing because he was a poor singer. Not to mention the fact that a man in a red helmet/mask laying down floor tiles looked kind of ridiculous, no matter how fit he was.

# 悪

Dora hammered in the last strip of molding and tossed the mallet aside. Rolling onto her back, she shouted, “Finally!” She pushed off her fogged up glasses and wiped the sweat from her face. “Hey, you done?” she called out to Red Hood, wherever he was.

“Yeah, all done. Need a hand?” He was closer than Dora had thought. When she wiped her glasses clean and put them back on, he was standing above her, offering her his hand.

“Sure.” She took it, and he pulled her up so quickly she got dizzy. She held onto his arm to prevent herself stumbling. When the world stopped spinning, she realized she was only inches away from him, her eyes level with his chest. She looked up. _He’s so tall; he’s got over a foot on me,_ she marveled, remembering Holly telling her how Red Hood picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

Red Hood grabbed her other hand to steady her, but she winced, pulling it back.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” he asked.

Dora looked down at her hand, the skin still red and raw from the Molotov cocktail she had improvised the last time he was here. She took a big step back. “Hey, listen…” She went around tidying up tools and trash to hide her reddening face. “Thanks for helping me out. I owe you. For the trouble.”

“How about a drink and we call it even?” he offered, putting his gear back on. Unbuckled, it hung loosely on his lean frame.

 _A drink?_ _If he wants a drink, he has to..._ “Yeah, sure.”

As she led Red Hood into the kitchen, he took the tool bag away from her so she wouldn’t have to lug it there. For a moment, she questioned if it was chauvinist or chivalrous, but decided on the latter. At the refrigerator, she pulled out a water bottle and tossed it to him. Feeling anxious as she took a sip from her own bottle, she couldn’t help but stare at him. He _had to_ take off his helmet to drink something, but after everything Montoya said… Was it really a good idea to see his face?

 “Thanks,” he said—but he placed the bottle on the counter. “I was actually thinking about something stronger. Maybe when the Alibi is up and running again, I can open a tab.”

“Oh, you meant… Right, yeah. No, don’t worry about a tab.” Dora scoffed, feigning nonchalance to hide her disappointment. “After all you’ve done for me and this place, all your drinks are on the house, for life. It’s the least I can do.”

“Cool. See you around, then. I guess I don’t have to tell you to keep out of trouble. Take care, Dora.”

Nervously tapping the counter, she watched Red Hood walk toward the door, wondering when she would see him again.

“Oh. Before I forget.” Red Hood stopped at the door, drawing a gun. Dora’s heart skipped a beat, but he deftly twirled it so the muzzle was in his palm. “Here.” He held it out for her.

It was her father’s Colt. She took it, gripping it tightly in one hand while running her fingers along the smooth metal with the other. She didn’t have to release the magazine—she could tell it was loaded by its weight. _What would Dad think of everything that’s been happening?_ His little girl had killed a man; she had become friends with a vigilante in a red helmet that cut off people’s heads like a serial killer and blew up buildings like a terrorist. Did she really want to know what was behind his mask?

Then she thought, _Fuck it_ , _why not. The cops are already convinced I know what he looks like. It can’t hurt to peek._ “Hey, do you like whiskey?” she blurted out, before her conscience could kick in.

Red Hood paused with his hand on the back-door’s handle. “Yeah, actually. Love the stuff.”

“My dad loved it, too. He’s got a few good vintages.”

“Really?”

“Do you have to be anywhere right now? How about a nightcap?” Her face was red. She couldn’t believe she had just said that. She hoped he didn’t notice.

Red Hood turned around and stood there for a moment. The shape of his helmet’s glowing eye slits made it look like his brow was furrowed. For a second, he looked like he had in the alley a few hours earlier. Dora could imagine what criminals felt when he stared them down. Afraid, vulnerable, and very small.

“Sure, that sounds good,” he finally said; the sudden nonchalance in his voice didn’t match the serious expression frozen on his mask.

Dora nodded awkwardly. “Follow me, then.” She holstered her father’s gun into her waistband as she went over to the pantry. Flipping a switch inside the room revealed boxes of liquor stacked on shelves as high as the ceiling. She had always thought the room was quite large, but with a six-foot man inside with her, it suddenly felt cramped.

“So this is where you stash all the good stuff?”

“Not quite.” Dora went to the back of the room and shoved aside a large crate of vodka that had been blocking a door. It wasn’t exactly hidden, but being the same color as the walls, the door was difficult to notice under the dim lighting and all the clutter. She picked a key from of her ring and unlocked it.

“It’s pretty obvious, but this is a really old building,” she said, walking down a flight of concrete stairs. “Hard to believe now, but my father’s side of the family was actually really well off at the start of the 1900s. After my great-grandparents hopped off the boat from England, they fell in with the Italian and the Irish mobs during Prohibition. They started a few speakeasies and made a killing. My family has lived in this building for generations, but my grandfather didn’t buy it off the original owners until the fifties or sixties or something. When the Cold War started to get real bad, my grandpa made the building earthquake-proof and converted the old basement speakeasy into a bunker.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Red Hood said, running his hand along the concrete wall as they descended, as if he could feel the history in the bricks.

“Yeah, it helped us survive the quake that hit Gotham a few years ago, but my dad said the renovation nearly bankrupted the family before it even hit. Seems like it’s the family curse. Each generation gets us poorer and poorer.” Dora reached another door at the bottom of the stairs, made of iron with a hatch wheel.

“What do you mean?”

Dora turned the wheel with a heave. The rusted metal screeched and groaned. “Ten years ago, my dad spent a ton of money he didn’t have renovating the bar, and when he did that, he also converted the bunker into a cellar for high-shelf liquor and wine. And then I go and do it _again_ now, trying to rebuild this place and keep it afloat with half a dozen loans I might never be able to pay off. My mother warned me, but I wouldn’t listen.” The wheel stopped with a clank. Dora pulled the door open. “At least I didn’t use a loan shark like my dad. ... Although, sometimes I wish I did. Banks can be crooks too.”

“Who else knows about this place?” Red Hood followed her inside the dark room.

“It’s not really a secret, but I guess… only my family, the other bartender Rochelle, and my friend Holly.” Dora fumbled around the wall until she found a lever. She pushed it up and the room lit up in a chorus of hums and snaps.

“This doesn’t look like a liquor cellar,” Red Hood observed. The basement was a wide open space with concrete walls and floors, dimly lit by hanging incandescent light bulbs. Boxes and shelves of liquor dominated one wall, but the opposite side of the room had a sofa, coffee table, a desk, TV, stereo, and a small bed. There was even a microwave oven and a hot plate next to a sink and mini-fridge, making a little kitchenette. “Looks like someone’s dingy apartment. Better than what most people get in this town.”

Dora smirked at the irony. “Yeah, it was my dad’s.” She went over to the sink and rinsed off a few glasses. “When my mom dumped him, he started living here. He had no other place to go. It was during the crisis after the earthquake. No Man’s Land.”

“But your family owns a dozen apartments upstairs...” Red Hood put down his gear again and reclined on the sofa. The way he sank into the cushions made it clear he was as tired as she was.

“In the divorce, my mom and dad split the building in half. She got the apartments, he got the bar. She didn’t want anything to do with my dad, and that included leasing him a place to stay.”

“Wow, your mom’s kind of...”

“A bitch?” Dora chuckled. “Yeah, she can be. She eventually eased up and let him move upstairs, but she made him stew down here for well over a year after the quake.” She shook the two glasses dry and placed them on the coffee table. “Sorry, no ice,” she said, checking the mini-fridge.

“That’s okay, I like my whiskey neat.”

Dora went to the crates of liquor and perused the dusty labels. She pulled out a bottle. “So what would you like? Glenkinchie? Lagavulin?”

“You’ve got Lagavulin? A shot of that would be awesome.”

She blew the dust off the bottle as she walked over to the sofa. Red Hood took the bottle from her as she sat down. “Wow, this scotch is older than I am...” He brought the label close to his mask... and his eyes glowed blue for a second. “It’s legit.”

Dora ignored that Red Hood had some type of high-tech scanning equipment in his helmet, concentrating instead on the fact that he must be in his twenties—because she already knew that the bottle of whiskey was thirty years old. But she wanted a more exact number. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking... how old are you?”

He put the bottle down. “Not much older than you, actually.”

 _So twenty-two-ish?_ Dora thought.

Red Hood touched something on the back of his helmet. Dora heard a click and the light glowing from the mask’s eyes shut off.

She held her breath. The moment had finally come.

There was a pneumatic hiss as panels spread apart at the helmet’s chin, sides, and back. Red Hood took it off and Dora finally saw his face.

Most of it.

To her disappointment, underneath the helmet, Red Hood had another mask. A small red one that only covered his eyes, like the ones she had seen on Nightwing, Robin, and many other vigilantes and villains on the news. She had always wondered what was the point of such a small mask, but even though she was sitting right next to him, she couldn’t see the full shape of his nose, his eyebrows, nor the color of his eyes; the mask had a mold and glowing white lenses that concealed them. It covered no more than what a large pair of sunglasses would, but it was enough to make her uncertain whether he was Caucasian, Hispanic, Arabic, Asian... or even a mix of any race.

However, she could clearly see Red Hood had a fair complexion with shaggy coal-black hair. He had some stubble on his cheeks and chin, and the jaw underneath was well-defined. _He kinda looks like Nightwing... but younger._ He couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than she was. He might even be younger for all she knew.

 _Pero que guapo_ , she couldn’t help but think. On top of being a badass vigilante and fit as hell, he was also pretty damn cute. _For fuck’s sake, why are some people so damn lucky?_ Dora’s genetic lottery bid had awarded her a short stature, large hips, flat feet, and astigmatism.

Red Hood noticed her staring and cracked a charming smile. “Yeah, this thing,” he said, touching his domino mask. “You can never be too careful.”

“I agree.”

It was Red Hood’s turn to feel awkward, so he broke eye contact to pour the whiskey. He gave Dora her tumbler and took a moment to smell his drink. “You know, such good scotch deserves a toast.”

Dora finally stopped staring at him and looked down at the swirling golden liquid in her own cup. “Yeah, but to what?”

“How about... to Monty.” He raised his glass. “Despite his flaws, he was a good man.”

That struck Dora’s heartstrings, resonating with all the bittersweet memories she had of her father over the years. “Yeah. To Monty.” The sum total was more sweet than bitter, she told herself. They clinked cups and swallowed their drinks. “Wow, that’s really smooth,” she marveled, looking at the dregs in amazement. It didn’t burn much going down and it tasted _good_.

“Yeah, that’s damn good scotch,” Red Hood said, having the same reaction. “I guess that’s why this stuff is expensive. You didn’t have to waste some on me.”

“No, it’s okay.” Dora grabbed the bottle and poured another round. “It’s been sitting down here for years, that’s the real waste. One of my dad’s mistakes, buying vintage high-shelf stuff. Our customers aren’t exactly the type to care enough about what they’re drinking to shell out the big bucks. As good as it is, we can’t sell this stuff.”

“Why didn’t he just sell it back to his liquor vendor?”

Dora scoffed bitterly. “My dad didn’t get all this booze above board. He got it all from the Odessa Mob, who smuggled it from overseas… and they don’t do refunds. Occasionally, the mob’s enforcers would ask for the primo stuff—for free of course—but they all died in the gang war.”

“Wow, your dad was… an interesting man.” Red Hood sipped slowly at the whiskey this time, pausing to savor the taste.

“Hey, um...” Dora pulled her feet up on the couch. “What did you mean earlier by my dad’s flaws?”

“Oh. You know. His, uh... drinking problem.”

Dora’s brow tightened. “How do you know about his drinking problem?”

Red Hood hesitated. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could tell he was trying to avoid looking at her. “No offense, Dora, but people talk. Everyone in Crime Alley knew about your dad was an alcoholic.”

She knew that, but it surprised her that Red Hood did. “But he was sober for years, up until he died. How’d you know about that?”

“You assume I’m new to town, but I grew up here.”

“In Gotham? I guessed as much, so give me some credit.”

“Yeah, but I mean I was born and raised _here,_ in Crime Alley. On Park Row. Same as you. Why do you think I’m sticking my neck out for this place? It’s my home too, Dora. It’s in my blood as much as it’s in yours.”

Impressed, Dora toasted to that. As the shot went down her throat, it occurred to her that if they were near the same age, she likely went to school with Red Hood, whoever he was. She sifted through her memories, trying to remember a classmate or boy from the block that could have turned out to become the most violent vigilante Gotham has ever seen… but almost every boy that lived on Park Row ended up a convict, a deadbeat, or… dead.

But she refocused on something he said earlier. “So, wait, you knew my father?”

“No, I knew _about_ Monty. Met him a few times while I was a kid. But I never knew him personally. You know how word travels up and down this neighborhood. I don’t know the fact from fiction, though. Tell me about him.”

“You really want to listen to me talk about my dad?”

Red Hood poured himself another shot and reclined back on the sofa. “Word of mouth had Monty as a sleazy guy, a drunk and a deadbeat dad. But I can clearly tell you loved him very much, so I want to know what you thought of him.”

“Um... sure.” Dora took a sip of her drink for courage. Then she told Red Hood about her father, Philip Montgomery.

He wasn’t always a drunk. What made him crawl into the bottle was the pressure he was facing from Vasily Kosov and the Odessa Mob to pay back the debt he owed to them for rebuilding the Alibi, on top of the extortion money. It was a slow and steady decline, but the alcoholism eventually got so bad, he got into an accident while driving drunk—with Carla and Mercy in the backseat. Both Dora’s sisters were hurt in the accident, especially Mercy, who’s Asperger’s made the incident all the more traumatizing. Disgusted and fed up, their mother didn’t bother to post Monty’s bail, or hire him a lawyer. Instead, she let him stew in jail while she filed for divorce and took full custody of their three daughters.

At first, Dora was just as angry at him as her mother was, but she finally understood his remorse when he attempted to kill himself by jumping off the top of the Montgomery building. He would have succeeded if not for the dumpster he landed in. “I’ve had too many friends eat a bullet to go out the same way,” Dora remembered him saying when she found him.

Her mother still had no sympathy, so Dora took it upon herself to help her father recover. She took him to therapy, Alcoholics Anonymous, made sure he abided his parole—even stayed in Gotham after the earthquake to help him protect and rebuild the building. Over the years, her parents began to reconcile their differences, enough to co-parent and even date a while, but not quite enough to remarry. Carla and Mercy were beginning to trust him again... to _love_ him again.

Then Black Mask and his men killed him.

Dora tossed back one last shot and put her cup down. “I... watched Black Mask kill my father. I couldn’t do anything, Sergei was holding me back, while his boys just stood there. They just fucking stood there and watched a good man get beaten to a pulp, passing around a bottle of vodka, egging on Black Mask like they were watching a boxing match.” She willed her tears to stay inside and looked at Red Hood. “They left him barely alive and he died before the ambulance arrived. I tried everything I had learned in school, but I couldn’t save him. He needed me and I let him down…”

Red Hood scooted closer to her. “I don’t know what you’re feeling so guilty about, Dora. You tried and that’s what matters. What more could you have done?”

Dora pushed him away, angry. He didn’t understand. “But I could have done something— _should_ have done something. Sergei and his boys all had their hands in wetwork. They fucking bragged about it at my bar, right in front of me, all the fucking time... Escaping run-ins with Batman, and getting released from Blackgate on early parole because of fucking _overcrowding_. Can you believe it?” Dora pulled out her father’s gun and gripped it tight, the anger inside her boiling. “My father’s killers drank at my bar, for months. Dad’s gun was right there under the counter, for _months_. I could’ve avenged him _myself_ , I had a thousand chances... but I never did. I was too much of a coward. I... just couldn’t... I... _Argh_!”

She jumped up suddenly and fired the gun. Again and again, at the liquor on the shelves—bottles exploded until the magazine was empty. “Fuck!” she screamed and kicked the coffee table. “Fucking fuck!”

Red Hood didn’t so much as flinch. He only stood up and pried the gun out of her hand. “Calm down.”

“Get the fuck off me!” she shouted, pushing him away.

“Hey! Chill!” Red Hood grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip too strong for her to escape. “I saw you fight back that night we met in the alley. And last week, in the bar, you protected your loved ones. You saved them. I didn’t. _You_ did. You did what you had to do and you didn’t hesitate. Months ago, you saved dozens of lives in the gang war. People still talk about it.” He took her hand, being careful of the burn. “I’m looking at you right now, Dora, and I can see the fight in you—the defiance. You don’t need a mask to be a hero. You just need to care about other people and be willing to get off your ass to do it. From what I’ve seen and heard, you risk your own safety for the sake of others all the time. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re braver than you think. Your father would be proud of you.”

Dora’s heart was racing, and her insides were burning so hot she wanted to scream again. Red Hood’s eyes were hidden behind a mask, but he was looking straight at her, _into_ her—so she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Not after what he just said.

So she kissed him.

She grabbed the back of his neck, but whether she pulled him down or herself up, she didn’t know because his lips were on hers and nothing else mattered—it felt good, it felt _right_.

It was only when she pulled away for a breath that she realized he wasn’t kissing her back. His mouth was closed, his nostrils were flared, and his masked eyes were impossible to read. Her heart sank. “Oh my god, I’m sorry.” She looked down at the half-empty bottle on the coffee table. “I... I’m drunk, I don’t know what I was thinking—”

This time Dora was on the receiving end of an unexpected kiss, one that took her breath away and made her knees weak. Luckily, she didn’t need to stand because Red Hood grabbed her behind the hips and lifted her up. Suddenly, she was weightless, only tethered to reality by his lips. She locked her ankles behind him so she wouldn’t float away.

And then she was falling. Her back hit something soft and she felt Red Hood’s weight land on top of her. She was laying on her back, whether if it was on the sofa, the bed, or the floor, she didn't know and didn’t care.

Their lips mashed together, exchanging breath; their bodies rubbed together, exchanging heat and pleasure. Dora dug her nails into Red Hood’s back and clawed off his shirt. When she brought her lips to his skin again, she felt the rough texture of his chest hair and the firmness of his muscles. She latched onto the crook of his neck and sucked and bit.

But Red Hood wouldn’t allow it. He grabbed her jaw and pulled it away, her mouth detaching with a gasp, one that turned into a moan when he put his own lips on her neck—right underneath her ear. Dora’s body went limp, and the next thing she knew her t-shirt and bra were suddenly gone. Red Hood pinned her arms above her head with one hand, while the other was on her breast. They kissed again, and Dora felt like he was sucking the breath right out of her.

When he dragged his mouth to her collarbone, some sense returned to her. “Stop,” she said. Red Hood didn’t listen, his mouth inched closer to her breast, his lips and breath hot on her skin. “Ooooh... Wait, stop... Stop, please... Hey! Stop!”

She hit him on the shoulder a few times, and when he wouldn’t let off, she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. “I said _stop_!”

Red Hood finally listened. He pulled away and sat back, breathless. He seemed surprised with himself. “Sorry. I... You’re hard to resist.”

Although she was frightened at first, Dora could tell he was telling the truth. She felt his erection poking her through only a few layers of fabric. He was hard to resist too—she wouldn’t be lying bare-breasted in front of him if he wasn’t. She had to slow down and think, but it was difficult to do with her brain soaked in alcohol and Red Hood sitting topless in front of her.

He slouched and fidgeted with his coal black hair, suddenly bashful. “Yeah, I know. I’m pretty fucked up.”

 _Fucked up?_ Dora got up on her elbows and wiped the fog from her glasses to get a proper look at him. His impeccably toned stomach muscles flexed loose and taut rapidly, still breathing heavily. The fair skin on his chest had a light smattering of hair, but it was blemished by bumpy red scars that marred his whole torso. Having treated those types of wounds in the gang war, Dora recognized multiple bullet wounds, stab wounds, cuts, abrasions, and a burn that extended from his shoulder to the center of his chest. He was even missing a nipple.

His body was a battlefield.

But her own body didn’t care how broken he was. She wanted to do exactly what Bullock and Montoya wanted to arrest her for—and she was finding it difficult to care. _You’re about to fuck a killer_ , she reminded herself.

 _But I’m a killer too,_ another side of herself said. _The cops never have to know. Who I sleep with is none of their business. It can’t be too hard to keep this a secret._

“What’s wrong?” Red Hood asked.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“... Us. What are we doing?”

“I was hoping we were about to have sex.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her up, so that she was straddling his lap—and his erection.

“I know...” She shuddered, feeling his manhood poking her. “... but we’re both drunk. We have to slow down.”

“Why? You started this.”

“What?”

“ _You_ kissed me,” Red Hood said with a sly smile. “ _You_ served me the drink.”

“Yeah, but... Look, we barely know each other. I don’t know your real name. I don’t even know what you really look like.”

“What? Is this still too much?” He tapped his red domino mask.

“Yeah, I won’t have sex with you with that thing on. I may be a Park Row girl, but I draw the line at sleeping with a guy whose name and face I don’t even know.”

Red Hood didn’t say anything for several moments. He just looked at her through the white lenses of his mask. Dora’s breathing fell in time with his. Finally, he said, “Can I trust you?”

She was almost offended. “I’m not a criminal like half the people in this borough, but I’m not a snitch either. Can _I_ trust _you_? I know you’re just trying to do the right thing, but... you blow up buildings and kill people. They call you a _terrorist_ on the news.”

In response, Red Hood slid her glasses up, her bangs too, exposing her full face. He ran a thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re a beautiful person, Dora. Inside and out. I’m out there, every night, fighting the worst Gotham has to offer, so sometimes it’s hard to remember that people like you still exist here. You have to know that I’d never hurt you. You remind me of what I’m fighting for.”

That satisfied her, so she kissed him again. As she caressed his lips with hers, she thought, _If I get this mask off, I don’t care what he looks like, we’ll do it. I just want to see his eyes. Let’s make love like normal people, not fuck like strangers._

Pulling away, she found her hands on Red Hood’s face. She was touching his mask, and her fingers were already peeling it off. He wasn’t stopping her.

A gasp broke through the silence, but it didn’t come from Dora or Red Hood. They both looked at the door.

Holly stood there, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. “Holy. Shit.”

-

v0.4.18.1


	10. Sober

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of Dora's dreams is interrupted by a nightmare that is all too real: debt.

Chapter 10: Sober

“What the hell?” Dora untangled herself from Red Hood. She tumbled off the bed and looked around for her bra—her shirt, a pillow, a blanket... anything at all to cover her naked chest. “You don’t knock? What’s wrong with you?”

“The door was open!” Holly tried to contain the smile on her face, but couldn’t. She looked at Red Hood. “Who’s the cutie, Dee?”

“Um...” She couldn’t answer. Her mind was racing, trying to think of an excuse, trying to find something to wear.  _ Where are my clothes!?  _ She gave up and just covered her breasts with her arms. “Just... get out of here, Holly!” But Holly just stood there, basking in her embarrassment with a cheeky grin on her face.

“Don’t worry, she can stay. I have to go anyway,” Red Hood said. He found Dora’s top and handed it to her.

“Wait, no...” Dora said, slipping it on quickly. She realized it was sheer and on backwards, but she didn’t care. Where could he possibly have to be? A minute ago he had enough free time for sex, but now that Holly had cock-blocked him, he didn’t?

“Hey, you don’t have to go... I can make her leave.” Dora held his hand tightly, trying to show him how much she wanted him to stay.

“Can’t be sure she wasn’t followed here.” He pulled his hand away.

A lame excuse. Dora feared she knew the truth. The interruption had sobered him up and made him reconsider revealing his identity to a desperate girl from the ghetto, with daddy issues. Not to mention she also had both an illegal immigrant  _ and  _ a hooker for best friends, as well as a drug runner for a sister.

Pissed off but not wanting to show it, Dora glared at Holly behind Red Hood’s back and gestured aggressively that she had to leave. Holly either didn’t notice or just ignored Dora’s signals. She stood there and ogled Red Hood, unabashed, as he slipped his jacket over his bare back. She literally drank him in, a hungry look in her eyes. A flush of possessiveness overwhelmed Dora, something she never felt before. She wanted to kill Holly, seriously.

 Red Hood was oblivious to all that. He reached into the collar and pulled out a detachable red hood large enough to conceal most of his face in shadow.

“It’s okay, Dora,” he said. “I’ll see you around.” He caressed her cheek, looking at her from behind his white lenses. 

Dora wished she could see his eyes.

Red Hood bent down and kissed her lips, slow. It was surprisingly soft and tender, in contrast to their previous kisses. Dora’s heart was fit to burst. He lingered for a long moment, resting his forehead on hers... then he placed her glasses back into her hands.

When their skin lost contact, Dora felt a magnetic pull. She wondered if he felt it too, and if it meant he would come back. He had to; he couldn’t leave her hanging like this.

He grabbed his gear, and on the way out the door, he whispered something to Holly. She smirked, not looking him in the face, but down at his taut torso. “Sure thing, boss. Your secret is safe with me.”

Red Hood scoffed and left, zipping up his jacket without looking back. Dora ran across the room, and sealed the door. “What the fuck, Holly?” she shouted. “What the hell was that? Can’t you take a hint? Why didn’t you just leave?”

“And pass up the chance to check out my boss while he’s shirtless ? He’s a babe, isn’t he? And hey... you are too.” Her eyes lowered. “You’ve got nice boobs, Dee. You should show them off more often. What’s your size? I’ve got some tops you can borrow if you’re ever in the mood.” She reached out to tickle Dora’s breasts.

Dora slapped her hand away and crossed her arms. She stomped over to the sofa and fell into it, groaning. She was frustrated.

_ Very  _ frustrated.

“Blue tubes?” Holly asked, sitting down and putting Dora’s feet in her lap.

“Holly, just...  _ Grrr _ !” Dora really hated her right now. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

“Carla was worried about you. You weren’t picking up your phone, so she called and asked me to check if you were still at the bar. She said you promised you’d be home hours ago.”

Groaning, Dora slapped her forehead. “Damn it, that’s right. I kinda lost track of time.”

“Obviously.” Holly giggled, picking at the half empty bottle of whiskey and having a sip. “Can’t blame you. ... So are you and Red Hood, like, together now?”

“No.”

“Do you know his name?” Holly prodded.

“No.”

“Have you seen his face yet? I mean without that little mask on?”

“No.”

Holly smiled. “Oh, so it’s just casual?”

“No! I mean I don’t know!” Dora said, aggravated. “We were kinda figuring that out when you barged in.”

“Hey, I didn’t  _ barge  _ in.”

“You might as well have. Why didn’t you leave when I told you to?”

Holly shrugged. “C’mon, he was practically halfway out the door once he realized I was there. Sorry, but not sorry, Dee.”

“Oh, fuck off, Holly.” She was actually annoyed and angry with her.

“Hey, I’m game if you are. Seeing you two together kinda got my motor running.” She traced circles on Dora’s knee, and a mischievous smile spread on her face.

Dora slapped her hand away and blushed, embarrassed. “Stop!”

“Fine, fine!” Holly said, laughing. “So are you going home tonight?”

“No. I’m too fucking tired to walk seven blocks.” Dora swung her legs off Holly’s lap and dragged herself to the bed. She kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her jeans, glad for once her bra was already off.

“Mind if I crash here tonight too?” Holly said while typing up a text to Carla.

Dora didn’t say anything for a moment, considering it. “Fine,” she groaned. “Take the couch.”

Sprawling out, Holly smiled. “If I had left... you were going to rub one out, huh?”

Dora threw a pillow at her.

#

$3,000 for flooring. $6,000 for the new pool tables. $4,000 for the new bar counter and the shelf behind it. $3,000 for all the new booths, tables, and chairs. $4,500 more to renew the liquor license. $6,000 to restock all the liquor the LU had destroyed. Plus another dozen odds and ends eating away her funds. All of it was covered by the loan she had gotten for mortgaging the Montgomery building, but every invoice still cut deep. $8,000 monthly, for the foreseeable future, to pay it all back.

Dora brooded in one of those newly upholstered booths, with invoices and receipts spread out on the table in front of her, silently trying to keep her composure. The bar averaged about $20,000 in revenue a month—on a  _ good  _ month. With all the usual expenses coupled with her debt, she would barely break even every month, and probably not see a decent profit for  _ years.  _ She needed an accountant to be sure, and to help trim the fat off her expenses and work out more efficient payment plans for all her loans. Her mother had kept books for the bar and the flats in the building for almost 20 years, but she was far and away from qualified despite the experience. Even if a CPA was willing to overlook all the extortion and laundering in the books, Dora didn’t think she could afford one.

What she really needed was her father. He would know what to do.

“Oye, mija, que vamos hacer? Estas segura con sus opciones?”  _ Hey, girl, what should we do? Are you sure about your choices? _

Dora snapped out of her thoughts and back into reality. The foreman of the contractors her mother had hired stood by the table, looking at her with an impatient expression.  “I’m sorry, what?” Dora asked.

The foreman rolled his eyes and spoke to her in heavily accented English. “I want to ask you, are you sure you do not want marble? Looks better than wood.”

It was Dora’s turn to be annoyed. She had already told this guy she didn’t want marble countertops for the bar, she wanted wood. Marble was too expensive. “El madera, por cierto.”

“And for sinks? My men have the porcelain packed in the truck.”

Dora groaned. “Steel. I want the steel sinks.”

“Sorry, but is not whole point of remodel to make bar look better? You had wood counters before, had steel sinks before.”

“Listen, dude, I’m not made of money. If you want this job, then just do what I say and don’t argue with me. I could always find some Americans with  _ licenses  _ to do it.” 

The man gave her a nasty look for a fraction of a second, but wiped it away just as quick. It still left Dora feeling ashamed. “Of course,” he said, and turned back to his men with a nod.

She hated to pull that card, not just because it was a complete bluff (she couldn’t afford licensed contractors), but more because it was undermining these immigrant workers who were as much Santa Priscan as her mother. She felt a bad taste in her mouth just having said those words.

She looked again at the papers strewn across the table. She had lost her train of thought, not that she had made any progress working out how to dig herself out all this debt. Right now the only plan was to just carry on, earn as much as she could, and chip away at the balance. Perhaps small, but regular payments would keep the debt collectors off their asses. The overhead left just enough for her family to get by, not as well off as before, but good enough—assuming her tenants upstairs didn’t keep moving out. With an exhausted sigh, Dora stacked up the papers. Her desk in the office hadn’t been big enough for her to work on, but at least it had provided her some privacy from the contractors. Maybe she could sneak in a nap while she was in there.

“Is there any room in all that left for me?”

“Rochelle!” Dora lit up at the sight of Rochelle’s bright green eyes and even brighter smile. She pulled her into a fervently tight hug. Dora hadn’t seen her since the night the LU trashed the bar, and in the wake of all that had happened, she forgot how much she missed her best friend. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you back, things have been crazy busy around here.”

Rochelle looked around at some of the unfinished parts of the bar—the bullet holes in the barshelf, the hole in the wall leading to restrooms—she seemed amused. “Yeah, I can see that. I leave you alone and everything goes to shit.”

Dora suppressed a laugh. “Why are you here?”

Rochelle’s forehead puckered but there was a smirk on her lips. “What the hell do you mean, ‘why am I here?’ I’m here to make certain I still have a job! The Alibi’s hosted three crime scenes within the last fucking year, two of those within the last bloody  _ month _ —and I really mean  _ bloody _ now, Dee. It’s been totally trashed. I heard from Holly that you  _ sold _ the fucking place.”

“I didn’t sell it. I mortgaged it.”

“I thought you already owned it.”

“I did. I do.”

Rochelle looked confused. “What?”

Dora tried to explain it to her. She kind of did the opposite of selling the building; she had bought it all over again. She sold it to the bank for a lump sum of liquid cash, then re-bought the building with a mortgage—all in one transaction.

“Dee, I don’t know what difference that makes here in the states... I don’t even know what to think. You haven’t called, you haven’t texted.”

“I’m so sorry, Rochelle. And of course you still have a job. Honestly, I just couldn’t find a minute...” Just thinking of all the distractions lately made her head spin. _ Applying for the loans, dealing with vendors and licensing, looking for cheap contractors, then all the renovation work, both what I have to oversee and what I have to do myself. And to top it all, Red Hood stopping by and causing a swirling wake of... feelings... and disappearing. _ Now that she thought of it, Dora realized what she really needed all this time was a friend, a confidante. She needed Rochelle.

“Wow, Dora,” Rochelle said, concern etching on her face as she studied her. “You really look like you need to relax.”

A bitter laugh broke out of Dora. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Rochelle hugged her tightly, and it took all of Dora’s self-control not to break out crying.

“Do you need help with anything?” Rochelle asked, rubbing her shoulder.

“Not really...” Dora looked around the barroom—at the floors, the furniture, the fixings—the hole still in the wall. There wasn’t much left that she or anyone else unskilled could do that the contractors couldn’t do better or quicker. She and Red Hood had taken care of all the small stuff last night.

“Well, the place is going to look better. Nevermind the shit that happened in here, it was due for an update anyway,” Rochelle said looking around. “You got new pool tables, I see.”

“Yeah, they cost me $3,000. Each.” Dora walked over to the nearby wall and flicked a switch, turning on the lamps hanging over the tables. Those were $75 each. She couldn’t help but see giant price tags on everything now.

“Red felt?” Rochelle touched the fabric on top of one of the tables, her eyebrow arched.

“Figured it was a refreshing change from the usual green.”

“Is that all?” she asked with a knowing smirk. “Why not black or blue or purple?”

It didn’t occur to Dora why she had picked red felt over the other colors until just now.

“It... matches the bricks.” She gestured at the walls. She didn’t feel too badly about the pool tables, knowing that they were a safe investment. Having two new and balanced pool tables with fresh untorn felt and a full set of balls would certainly attract customers. Especially here in Crime Alley, where the denizens liked to wager on  _ everything _ . Her brain then began to whir thinking of the possibilities—if she struck a deal with a bookie and got two or three flat screens, maybe they could bring in a bit more customers... The cellar was a perfect place to host poker games... but she was getting ahead of herself. Would her father have approved of the Alibi becoming an underground casino?

“Yikes,” Rochelle eyeing Dora’s brain blast with concern. “It’s obvious you need to unwind a bit, so why don’t we play a game of 8-ball?” She didn’t wait for an answer and racked up. A game of rock-paper-scissors let Dora break. She made a solid in, so she lined up another shot. While she did that, Rochelle asked, “So this Red Hood guy...”

Dora’s cue hit the felt. She cursed. This game was meant to calm her down. “What about him? He’s the reason we’re in this mess, isn’t he?” She shot again but didn’t score.

“Oh, cut the act,” Rochelle said. “Holly told me everything.”

Dora pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. “Then there’s no point in me telling you.”

Rochelle took her shot. It went wide, but she didn’t seem to care. “I know what happened, Dee, but not how you felt about it.”

Being honest with herself, Dora felt like she was dying to see Red Hood again. She was anxious to hear his voice, to talk to him. Red Hood had hinted that he had grown up on Park Row like her, so she wanted to know who he was—his name, if they had met before—she was almost certain she had because Park Row was a small neighborhood.

But just as much... she wanted to see his face and his body again, and run her hands all over him—and she wanted his hands, his lips, and whatever else all over her body too. However, she was wary because she had been drunk at the time... and horny. God damn it, she was so hard up for a lay.

It had been  _ years _ since she was last intimate with a man and Red Hood stirred something within her that she was having trouble holding back.

She told as much to Rochelle, in less direct words.

“Wow, you’re really smitten, aren’t you?” Rochelle said.

“Smitten?” Dora wasn’t sure what she meant.

“I think you might be falling for this guy.”

Dora couldn’t deny that she was physically attracted to him, and curious about his real identity, but... was she attracted to him emotionally? “How can I be? I don’t even know his name. I haven’t really seen his face. We’ve spent no time together.”

“There’s more behind the mask, behind the guns, and behind all the killing, Dee, and I think you know that,” Rochelle led Dora over to the window, careful not to let the contractors overhear. “There’s a who and a why under that red bucket, and it’s vibing with  _ your  _ who and why—name and face be damned.”

“You think so?”

“I ship it. I’m on board  _ SS Red Hood x Dora _ ,” Rochelle said with a smile. “When are you going to see him again?”

“I have no idea. We didn’t really get a chance to swap phone numbers or anything like that. I don’t have a bat-signal or anything like that to summon him. He just kinda... drops by whenever I need help.”

“Note to self, find a red searchlight.” Rochelle laughed. “Oh, and speaking of dropping by.”

The front door chimed as a tall old woman walked into the Alibi. Leslie Thompkins. There was a hard expression on her face that Dora was not used to seeing.

“Leslie? What are you doing here?” Dora went to greet her.

“I was passing by on my way to the Clinic and I saw the construction. I was afraid you had sold the place until I heard you talking. Did I hear that right, Dora? Are you involved with the Red Hood?”

For a second, Dora was incredulous that she had been overheard, then she noticed that the window she and Rochelle were standing by had no panes on it. “I, uh...”

Leslie’s glare of disapproval was scorching. It was precisely why Dora hadn’t told her mother, to avoid the same judgement.

“I’ll go tell the guys about this window,” Rochelle said, walking off. Dora looked at her desperately, urging her to stay with just the expression on her face, but Rochelle just mouthed, “Sorry.”

“Dora, what are you thinking? He’s a criminal. A murderer!”

“Leslie, listen, he’s not like that. He helped me out a few times—”

“Helped? How? By killing people?”

“It was self-defense,” Dora pointed out.

“Then why does he avoid the police? Why does he wear a mask? Would your bar be this demolished if it weren’t for him?!”

“I nearly died. I wouldn’t  _ be here _ if it wasn’t for him,” she said, trying not to raise her voice. “He didn’t trash the bar, the the LU cartel did. Red Hood’s done nothing but help me.”

Leslie gripped the strap of her bag tightly. “At what cost, Dora?”

“What do you mean, it cost me nothing!” But as soon as she said that, a jolt of realization struck her.

Red Hood originally wanted 15% off her total revenue, but after he sold the cocaine Carla had been running, she was off the hook. How come she never thought of it before? The “cost” had literally been flooding Gotham with drugs, even if it was to bougie brats in the Diamond District. As much as Leslie had a soft spot for low-income minorities, Dora wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Dora, think about what you’re doing,” Leslie urged. “Is the survival of this bar really worth getting in bed with a crime lord? Think of your family.”

With that last remark suspended in the air, Leslie left the bar, leaving Dora with a sinking feeling in her chest that was getting heavier by the second. Leslie couldn’t possibly know the truth, but her choice of words made Dora think. What did Red Hood really want from her? Did he really care about her, or was his affection just a front? Was he seducing her so she would comply with his racket? With men, he had no choice but to use force and bribery to get his way, but with women... all he really needed was his charisma. Was she the only female business owner in Park Row he had wooed?

-

v0.4.18.1


	11. Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaping the benefits Red Hood's success, Holly treats Dora to a night out, inviting her to the Iceberg Lounge. There, she proposes a deal that could help the Alibi recover. However, the deal is not entirely legal.

**Chapter 11: Night Out**

Dora fidgeted with the zipper of her jacket, feeling completely out of her element. She was standing in line to get into Gotham’s most exclusive nightclub: The Iceberg Lounge. In line with her were Holly, Rochelle, and Ben (Rochelle’s fiancé). Rochelle was wearing a green dress and suede boots, while Ben was dashing in his navy shirt and black jacket. Holly was the most bold, wearing a form-fitting red dress with strappy stiletto heels. Dora felt completely underdressed in her simple black frock and matte Doc Martens, but having always been a tomboy, it was the best she could muster for the occasion.

“Hey, isn’t that the dress you wore to my engagement party?” Rochelle noticed.

Dora looked down at herself. “Um, yeah, it is.”

Of course it was. It was the only dress she owned. She typically wore it to her relatives’ weddings and quinceaneras but had always gotten a bit of flak for it. _“Black is depressing and moody!”_ they would say, but Dora had always thought it was elegant and modest. She had endured the trauma of being forced to wear a poofy pink dress to her own quinceanera, and vowed to never wear anything as flamboyant again. Her father had understood. For her fifteenth birthday, he had given her a cropped leather jacket, which she was wearing now—and she was glad she did. It was a chilly night. She could see goosebumps raise on Rochelle and Holly’s arms.

“Oh my god, I’m so excited. Thanks for coming, guys!” Holly chirped as they moved up in line.

“Happy to!” Rochelle said.

“Thanks for the invite,” said Ben. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Yeah, no problem...” Dora mumbled. She hated clubs and would not have come if it wasn’t a special occasion. “Um... Holly,” she said, careful to keep her voice low, “how exactly are _you_ supposed to get into the club?”

“Oh, relax, Dee. I’ve got a fake ID.” She flashed a laminated card from her clutch handbag.

Dora inspected it, surprised by the quality of the forgery.

“It’s actually real,” Holly said, proud. “Borrowed it from a friend.”

The girl in the photo, Karon Brubaker, age 22, did bear a resemblance to Holly, except... “Her hair’s pink,” Dora said.

“The license is a few years old, so if I’m asked can just say I got sick of the color. It does say Karon’s natural hair color is blonde.”

Dora handed back the card with a frown. Would it be enough to fool the bouncer? Then a pang of guilt struck her. Here she was, effectively endorsing the type of behavior she would scold Carla for. What kind of role model was she? “Listen, on second thought, I think I’ll sit this one out...”

Holly reeled on Dora. “Hey, no! Don’t go! Dora, please! Tonight’s special! I promise! You won’t regret it!”

“But...”

“If you flake out on my birthday, I’ll never forgive you.” Holly glared.

Dora looked back at her, withering. It was so hard to believe that Holly was only turning seventeen. At times, she seemed more worldly and experienced than she was. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, Dora decided. _As long as Carla never finds out._ “Fine,” she said.

“Here we go! We’re next!” Rochelle exclaimed, prancing up to the bouncer.

They each presented their IDs to the bouncer, with Dora holding her breath as he examined Holly’s card with a flashlight. Holly didn’t seem bothered by the scrutiny and carried herself with the utmost confidence. In the end, they were let through without a hitch, to Dora’s relief.

Once they were inside the Iceberg Lounge, Dora noticed something. It wasn’t the white, blue, and black themed decor, or the massive ice sculptures and shimmering water fountains the club was known for... it was the music.

It wasn’t the typical club music she was expecting, the thumping EDM she had always associated with nightclubs. Instead, it was... _metal_.

Blaring from all the speakers at full volume was fast-paced, distorted, screaming, _hardcore_ metal—precisely her favorite kind of music.

“What the fuck,” Ben shouted over the din.

“Not what I was expecting,” said Rochelle, a smile on her face. “But I like it.”

Dora was still speechless, trying to reconcile her expectations with the reality that surrounded her. A smile was growing on her lips.

Holly laughed. “I just _knew_ you’d love it! It’s Ballroom Blitz!”

“Ballroom Blitz?” Ben asked.

“Yeah,” Holly squirmed, barely containing her enthusiasm. “It’s the rock and metal night the Iceberg Lounge hosts every other month. Like, it’s obvious that EDM and pop and rap is super popular in the club scene, but the promoters also know that Gotham has a hardcore metal scene that’s underserved, so they play metal music every once in a while.”

Dora looked over at the dancefloor where a full-contact mosh pit was roiling—people running in circles and shoving each other to the rhythm of the music. On stage, a band was performing and all the black-clad members were headbanging.

“Damn,” Rochelle cursed, tapping her heels. “Wish I brought better shoes.”

Dora smiled, glad she had decided to wear flat-soled boots.

“Follow me, guys. I’ve got another surprise!” Holly led them across the club, through the writhing crowd, to a flight of stairs cordoned off and guarded by another bouncer, burlier than the last.

“VIPs only,” he said.

“My name’s Holly Robinson, I’m on the list.”

“Can I see your ID, Miss Robinson?”

Holly reached into her clutch, but suddenly froze, hesitant. “Um... Sorry, I... must’ve lost it.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben asked. “You just had it at the door a minute ago. I saw you put it back into your bag—ouch!” Rochelle had elbowed him.

“No ID, no entry.”

“But mister, I have a reservation...” Holly nervously adjusted the straps of her dress, ‘inadvertently’ exposing more skin and cleavage.

The ruse was ineffective. “Yeah, a Holly Robinson is on the list, but I can’t be sure you aren’t poaching someone else’s rez without seeing your ID first. Club rules. Sorry, miss.”

“You know what? That’s okay,” Dora said, eyeing the mosh pit longingly. Everyone was jumping to a catchy riff. “We don’t need the VIP treatment to have a good time.”

“But it’s my birthday! I want table service!” Holly whined.

“It’s your birthday, Holly?” asked a smooth female voice. “You have to revel in style, if I have anything to say about it...” Dora turned back to see an astonishingly _beautiful_ woman descending the stairs. She had short dark hair and wore a tight black dress that put Dora’s own black frock to shame. Tall, slim, and pale, she was everything Dora wasn’t—Dora couldn’t help but feel envy. The slim woman touched the bouncer’s shoulder and looked at him with her shimmering green eyes. “She’s with me, Butch.”

The man’s ears reddened. “Of course, Miss Kyle.” He fumbled with the rope and waved Holly past.

Holly pranced toward the woman and embraced her tightly. “Selina! Thanks for the save!”

“My pleasure,” she said, returning the hug and looking at everyone else with a verdant magnetic gaze. “These are your friends?”

“Yeah, they’re with me.”

“Butch,” she said simply, and the bouncer ushered everybody along.

As they all ascended the stairs, Holly chattered indistinctly with Selina about something. Dora was amazed by her grace and poise. It seemed like Ben was just as mesmerized by Selina, if not more, judging by the way he was watching her walk up the stairs. Rochelle nudged him a little too hard and he tripped down a step.

Selina led them to a private loft with couches and tables that overlooked the dance floor. Before they even settled in, a shot girl came by with a tray of martinis.

“We didn’t order those,” Dora told her. She had a strict budget that night and would rather have a whiskey sour for her money than watered down gin.

“Don’t fret,” Selina said, taking a glass. She took a seat, crossed her legs, and sipped her drink—all in a series of mesmerizingly fluid motions. “Compliments of the house.”

“Thanks,” Rochelle said. “Do you work here?”

Selina handed a glass to Holly. “No. I’m... _acquainted_ with the owner, so all my friends drink free.” She clinked glasses with her. Dora wondered if Selina knew that Holly was underage.

Ben sputtered some of his drink. “You’re friends with the Penguin? Oswald Cobblepot, I mean.”

Selina smirked. “We have a... _working_ relationship. And speaking of—” She checked the little watch on her slender wrist. “I must be going. I have work to do.”

That piqued Dora’s interest. If Selina didn’t work for the Iceberg Lounge, but started this late at night, then was she a prostitute like Holly had been? At first glance, Selina seemed a little too classy to be a common hooker, but then Dora remembered Holly mention that her new madam was branching out into the high-end escort business.

As Selina stood to leave, Holly grabbed her hand. “Oh, don’t go, Lina! Stay and celebrate with my birthday with us!”

“Holly, darling, don’t you think you should be honest with your friends about the reason you brought them here?” Selina said with a smirk.

Holly faltered.

“What does she mean by that?” Dora asked.

Selina smirked at Dora’s comment but said nothing. Instead, she bent down and laid a kiss on Holly’s lips. It was shallow and only lasted a second, but Holly didn’t back away, accepting the kiss as if it was no big deal. Not only were Ben’s eyes bulging, so were Dora’s and Rochelle’s. When Selina pulled away, she pinched Holly’s chin and said, “I’ll see you soon, kitten.”

“Take care.” Holly waved as Selina walked away, and Dora thought she saw a look of concern on Holly’s face.

There was a pause. Everyone sipped their drinks.

“So... is Selina your girlfriend?” Rochelle asked (what everyone was thinking). “Like, your _girlfriend?_ ”

“What?” Holly scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “No... She took me in for a few months when I had no place to go. She’s a really good friend. Like an older sister. Like you guys.”

“You kiss your friends like that?” Ben asked, with an eager look at Rochelle and Dora. Holly giggled.

Rochelle was a little taken aback, her cheeks reddening. “No, she never...”

It made some sense to Dora, though. She recalled how flirty Holly was with everyone in general, even when she was “off-duty.” Dora decided to change the subject before Rochelle got anymore uncomfortable. “So what did Selina mean about being honest with the reason you brought us here?”

“Oh, that,” Holly said, avoiding all their eyes. “Right, so I have a confession to make.” She hesitated and took a sip of her martini. “It’s not really my birthday.”

“What?” Rochelle said.

“Wait, so you’re not even seventeen?” Dora asked, incredulous.

Ben was almost bug-eyed. “You’re... _sixteen_? What the fuck?” Apparently he hadn’t known she was even underage. It seemed like he was looking at Holly in a whole new light—self-disgust.

“Ugh.” Holly rolled her eyes. “I was afraid this would happen. I was hoping you’d all be more drunk when I told you, but Selina ruined it for me.... So just do me a favor and drink up.” They all looked at her, deadpan and noncommittal. Holly sighed, “I’m not telling you guys anything unless you drink, so chug! All of you!”

Everyone paused a second to consider, but ultimately downed their martinis. As if on cue, a shot girl appeared to bus their empty glasses and take their new orders.

Dora placed an order for a whiskey sour, then asked, “So what are we here to celebrate, if not your birthday?”

“This,” Holly reached into her bag and pulled out a hefty wad of cash, bound by a thick rubber band. “I just got my first payday from Red Hood, and it was more than a decent wage.”

“Whoa, how much is that?” Ben asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Holly said, tossing the wad between her hands. “It’s in small bills like tens and twenties, so I kept losing count, but it’s at least a few grand for a month’s worth of work.”

“I thought you weren’t turning tricks anymore,” Rochelle said, looking concerned.

“I’m not, but since I set up the dates, run the phones, run the site, and turndown the rooms for the brothel, Ma Gunn gives me a little cut.”

“A little?” Ben scoffed, eying the wad jealously.

“Are your clients pissed off about the raised price of everything?” Dora asked.

“Actually, prices haven’t changed much,” Holly answered, eating the olives that came with her new martini.

“Then how are you getting paid more?”

“Red Hood takes a _way_ smaller cut for himself than Stan ever did, so the girls make more money while the johns pay roughly the same. The only things the johns complain about now are all the bouncers lurking around and the extra charge for a date outside of the brothel.”

Even though Dora didn’t totally agree with prostitution, she supposed it was some consolation that Red Hood had made his own business somewhat ethical and safe for his workers.

“So how much is Red Hood’s cut exactly?” Rochelle asked.

“Fifteen percent.”

“Is that considered low?”

 Holly laughed. “Compared to the seventy-five percent that my last pimp Stan was keeping for himself? Fuck yeah, it is.”

“Makes sense,” Ben said. “Fifteen percent is the standard for talent agents in other industries, so why not prostitution? Seems fair.”

While Rochelle and Ben began a conversation about whether prostitution should be legal, Dora brooded, feeling more odd by the second that the man she had almost slept with was technically a _pimp_. She was bitterly reminded of her conversation with Leslie. What if she wasn’t the only woman Red Hood had seduced?

 As the debate heated up, Dora scooted nearer to Holly. Hoping not be overheard, she whispered, “So... how’s Red Hood doing?”

“What?” Holly looked surprised.

Dora was just as unnerved that Holly didn’t know what she was talking about. “Red Hood, have you seen him?”

“You’re saying _you_ haven’t seen him?”

“I—Should I have?”

“I mean, you’re fucking him aren’t you?”

“I’m not!” Dora said, trying to keep her voice down. “I haven’t seen him in over a week; not since that night you walked in on us.”

“Wow, really? You’d think after having you topless and ready to go, he’d come back around as soon as possible to, uh... take care of unfinished business.”

Despite her modesty, Dora lamented, “Right? It’s weird! That’s why I’m asking you!”

“Wow, you’re really hankering for a good fuck, aren’t you, Dee? When was the last time you got laid?” Holly asked. Dora glared at Holly, who recoiled and said, “Sorry, Dee, I haven’t seen him much.”

“I thought he was your pim—your boss,” Dora said.

“Nnyeah, sorta... Now that I think of it, Red Hood’s more like the owner of the brothel. Ma Gunn’s really my boss. I hardly ever see Red Hood, to be honest, and when I do, he only talks to Ma.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Dora asked.

“Because he’s busy, I assume.” Holly sipped her drink.

A lump formed in Dora’s throat. She drank some of her whiskey to get rid of it. “Busy ... doing what?”

“Come on. His whole vigilante-slash-crime-boss thing. He’s practically the owner and CEO of a criminal organization.” Holly studied Dora’s face for a moment, gauging her meaning. “Oh, no. Don’t worry, Dee, he doesn’t sleep with any of the girls.”

Relief washed over her. “He doesn’t?”

“I mean... he’s had plenty of offers, cuz... _duh._ But as far as I know, he’s turned everyone down. The girls have no idea why, but I think I’m the only one who does.” She nudged Dora, smiling knowingly.

Dora knocked back the remainder of her whiskey sour and signaled the shot girl for a refill.

“Hey,” Holly said, wrapping an arm around Dora. “I’ll try to give him your number the next time I see him. Okay?”

“Don’t make it seem like I’m... y’know.” _Desperate._

“Well, you are. I’ve never seen a girl as tightly wound as you, Dee.” Holly laughed, hugging her. “Don’t worry. I’ll be chill about it. But hey, I’ve got good news.”

“Yeah, what is it?” Dora doubted it would improve her mood.

“Rocky, this involves you too.” Holly tapped Rochelle, pulling her attention away from the conversation she and Ben were having. “I know stuff is pretty tight at the Alibi, and it’s been hard getting the ball rolling again, but I think I know someone who’s willing to help you out.”

Dora’s immediate decision was to decline, no matter who it was. She didn’t want to owe money to anyone anymore—she already had enough debt—to the banks, to Red Hood. Most importantly, being in debt to a criminal was what got her father killed. Still, she was curious. The bar had never attracted investors before, only bougie realtors that wanted to buy the whole Montgomery building just to evict everyone and gentrify it. “Who’s this angel investor?”

“Ma Gunn,” Holly answered.

“You mean your madam?” Rochelle asked.

Dora grimaced, shaking her head. “No way—”

“Wait a sec, guys, hear me out. I think it’s a good deal—”

“What does she want?” Dora interrupted. “Part ownership? A percentage of the profits? I won’t do that.”

“No, listen! Ma just wants to _pay you_ to perch one or two girls in your bar every night, but they won’t be turning tricks or nothing. They’ll be more like saleswomen than working girls. It’s just advertising. Like, ‘Hey, are you looking for a good time? I have friends that want to party.’”

Dora’s adamance faltered. She didn’t want her bar to turn into a brothel, but... under both Kosov and Black Mask, hookers (like Holly) picked up johns in her bar all the time without her permission, and she never got a kickback. She would now. Plus, with Red Hood as their pimp, she was more certain that these girls were consenting and paid fairly—not coerced, trafficked, or enslaved.

“I mean,” Dora looked at Rochelle. “As long as I don’t catch anyone having sex in the bathrooms, the pantry, or my office, or anywhere for that matter... it might be okay.”

Rochelle shrugged, but seemed to agree. “Sounds like it might be a good deal. Depends on how much this Ma Gunn chick pays you.”

Dora looked back at Holly. “Set up a meeting at the brothel. I want to talk to Ma Gunn myself.”

“At the brothel, really?” Holly asked.

“Yeah, I’m curious. If she wants to do business on my turf, I’d like to see hers.”

“Alright, then. I’ll let her know and get back to you.” Holly hailed the shot girl, and ordered another round of drinks for everyone. “Now for the last order of business before we go mosh our asses off.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to rent an apartment in your building, Dora,” Holly said, looking into her eyes with earnest. “Please, I know I’m only sixteen, but I don’t want to keep couch surfing until I’m eighteen.”

“Why don’t you just go live with your parents?” Ben asked.

All three girls reeled on him with disapproving glares, projecting the message “ _that’s not an option_ ” loud and clear. As Ben withered under Rochelle’s rant about abuse, Dora considered it. It wasn’t ideal, but filling a vacancy in her building would really help her financial situation. Another tenant paying rent in addition to Ma Gunn’s kickback would relieve the pressure she was under by a fair amount.

“Okay, it’s not legal,” Dora said. “But I think I can convince my mom to let you squat in one of the empty units. It has to be month-by-month, though, in case we run out of vacancies and someone wants to rent a flat the legit way.”

“Oh, Dora! Thank you!” Holly squeezed Dora around the middle tightly and kissed her on the check. “This is so great, we have to celebrate—and right on time!” The shot girl had come around with a fresh round of drinks. Holly started drinking hers while taking off her heels. “Let’s show those boys in the pit how it’s done!”

“All right, I’m on board!” Dora said, removing her jacket and lacing up her boots.

“Give me your shoes,” Rochelle told Ben.

“Hey, Dee,” Holly said, leading them all down the stairs. “Maybe you can reel in a guy that’s not a kingpin fighting a gang war.”

-

V0.4.18.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't mind the slower pace of this chapter. Its mostly character development and exposition to set up what's coming next... and trust me, it's good. If you liked the Catwoman cameo in this chapter, I'm set do it one better very soon.
> 
> Also, if you haven't noticed by now... Yes, Holly that's been in the story from the start, is in fact Holly Robinson, aka Selina Kyle's best friend, roommate, sidekick, and eventually/temporarily (in some continuities) the second Catwoman. She's not an original character, she belongs to DC. Some of my readers on DA and FFN never caught that.


	12. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dora has endured so much over the past few weeks, and the things she's seen can't help but creep into her dreams.

Chapter 12: Haunted

Dora stood in the Alibi—the old Alibi; the way her father had left it. The Alibi she grew up in, with the cracked floors, the splintered tabletops, mismatched chairs, and patchwork upholstery. The way it looked before the massacre.

The lights flickered and dimmed.

She was not alone.

Wisps of black smoke emerged from the shadows, crawled across the floor, and swirled around her ankles. In a sudden gust, all the smoke swept into the center of the room and coalesced into _him_. The man in the red mask.

As if to prove he was solid, he held out his gloved hand. She hesitated, looking into the glowing white eyes of his mask. He removed his gloves and beckoned again. This time she took it.

In a rush of wind, he swept her to the pool table.

He had her pinned. His body pressed hers into the table so she could not get away.

But she didn’t want to escape. Before she knew it, she had taken off his mask and her lips were all over his, as eager and hungry as he was.

He lifted her onto the pool table so he wouldn’t have to bend down to kiss her. He took off her glasses and ran his hands through her hair, down her arms, until he reached her hips. He slid his hand under her waistband, eager to continue.

But she pushed him away. He got the message. He stepped back, removing his boots, armor, and fatigues. Watching him, she slid off her top to catch up, but before she had tossed it away, he was back, removing her jeans, sneakers, and underwear, caressing and kissing her body as he discarded each piece of her clothing.

Fully naked, she crawled back on the table and he followed. In seconds they were entwined and lost in each other. Her hands roamed all over the scarred skin of his hard arms and back, while his hands kneaded the smooth skin on her soft chest and thighs. It was the best she had ever felt. She wanted it to last forever, but they were going too fast. If they kept on like this, the passion would engulf them in flames and burn out too quickly. But it had been so long since she had been this close to another person. She needed this. The hunger in the way he moved told her that he needed it too.

She pushed him away to allow them both to breathe, to pace themselves, to feel each other. She cupped his face and directed his gaze at her. He was fully unmasked for the first time, but his features felt familiar, as if he had never worn that mask in the first place. His eyes were pale blue, almost gray.

His movements finally slowed and she slowed down with him. They savored the moment, and each other. She was losing herself in his eyes.

Then without warning, he flipped her over and pinned her to the table, massaging her neck and shoulders with his mouth. She felt his hot breath on her back. He was rough. The table beneath her was as hard and unyielding as he was. But she didn’t mind. She loved it. The pressure was building and release was so close.

Something moved in the corner. He didn’t notice, but she did.

A heavy-set man lurked by the bar. There was nothing above his shoulders. He was holding his own severed head in his hands. It was glaring at her.

With empty eye sockets. Oozing blood.

Dora shrieked and tumbled off the pool table. Her lover dissipated into a cloud of black smoke. The cloud roiled and swirled, growing into a turbulent haze that engulfed the whole barroom, casting everything in shadows.

Seven more men materialized around her to join the first, their loud breathing raspy and wet. They were ghouls, misshapen and broken, riddled with bullet wounds, and covered in blood. She recognized them all. Their faces have been haunting her for weeks.

“Go away!” Dora screamed. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do anything!”

A broken man shambled forward from the crowd, holding out a gun by the barrel, urging her to take it. He grunted something apelike she could not understand.

“No, I don’t want to...” she pleaded.

He limped closer, his voice hacking. He thrust the gun at her. Her father’s Colt.

She looked at his face. She knew this one especially well. The bloody hole in his cheek where she had shot him.

It was him. Her first kill.

He smiled at her recognition, blood dripping from his shattered grin. Glassy white eyes leered at her exposed body.

“No, don’t...” She crawled away, trying to cover herself, but she bumped into another body. She looked up.

It was Leslie, clad in a bloodstained lab coat, glaring at her from behind cracked glasses, her a face full of contempt and loathing. She shouted, her voice thunderous and deafening. “ _Whore!”_

Dora jolted awake.

Her heart pumped so hard she thought her chest would burst. Her ears rang and she was covered in sweat.

She threw off the covers, and put her feet on the ground. The cold concrete on her bare soles refreshed her a little, and she remembered where she was. The cellar underneath the bar, sleeping on the cot. Her father’s hideout.

It all came back in a rush. Putting the finishing touches on the bar. Unpacking the liquor, printing the menus, setting up the cash register. Begging promoters on social media for a mention. The bar would re-open later this week, but there was still so much to do. She had been too tired to walk back home, even though Rochelle tried to insist on getting an Uber. Dora argued that every penny counted, so she decided to crash in the cellar. It happened often these days.

Peeling off her sweaty tank top and tossing it away, she stood. At the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and chest to dispel the turbid thoughts and feelings twisting inside her. Sheer guilt and utter shame... and unrelenting arousal. Altogether she felt... dirty. The ghost of Leslie’s voice echoed in her head. “ _Whore!_ ”

So many people killed in such little time, while she watched—and what had she done to save them? Nothing. In some cases, she had almost prayed for their deaths. Yet, here she was, yearning, longing for the man that had killed most of them, and helped cover up the one she killed herself.

Despite her hopes that the nightmares would fade away with time, they persisted instead. It was always the same cast of ghouls, but the person berating her rotated. Leslie, Carla, her mother, Rochelle, Holly... her father. They were getting worse, and more frequent, all while the sex with Red Hood was getting more passionate, more rough, and her climax was getting closer and more intense.

The bottle of whiskey they had shared was still on the coffee table. The expensive-as-fuck Lagavulin that was older than either of them. She hadn’t touched it since that night, but now she took it and gulped down a long swig.

It burned in her throat the whole way down, but she didn’t mind. It hurt in the best way. It tasted like him. Its scent was on his breath the last time they kissed.

Dora washed it down with several handfuls of water from the sink. There was lots to do tomorrow and she couldn’t afford to be hungover.

As she laid back down on the cot, drowsiness was already enveloping her, and Red Hood edged his way into her mind again. Shirtless, unmasked. In her dream, she had seen his face and recognized it. It was the first time ever. He had beautiful blue eyes that felt comforting and familiar to her. However, his features were already fading away. She pinched her eyes shut, trying to recall his face, but she couldn’t picture him, as typical of dreams. She could never remember what he looked like when she woke up. What did it matter? She didn’t really know what he looked like, it was just her horny imagination running wild, desperate for intimacy.

She didn’t let it frustrate her, because still seared and permanent in her mind was the feel of his body, the smell of his hair, and the sound of his voice. She let those memories play as she slid her hand down her stomach... to the place he didn’t have the chance to touch the last time they were together.

-

v0.4.18.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a personal challenge with this chapter: Just how sexy can I make this while not breaking FFN and DA's rules against pornography? Their biggest rule (in simplest terms) is against any graphic detailed description of genitalia engaging in a sexual act, which I think I avoided here. I personally think this is the cleanest sexy scene I've ever written, but those of you that have read my other work, feel free to compare and let me know. And correct me if I'm wrong, but does AO3 have less strict rules about sexual content than FFN and DA? Let me know. If so, if you guys want, I won't hold back next time.
> 
> I know this is a very short chapter (I think the shortest), but the scene that comes next was getting too long. This scene right here was also a long time coming, because I realized (almost too late) that I never properly addressed how witnessing the murders of so many people affect Dora mentally and emotionally. Maybe I'll make recurring nightmares a thing in the second draft. I'm thinking of just posting scenes as I write them, instead of trying to compile multiple scenes under a theme as a chapter. That way, you guys wait less for chapters. Thoughts?


	13. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dora helps Holly move into her building, she finds out a secret Holly has been keeping from her.

**Chapter 13: Moving Day**

“Pull, Carla!”

“I _am_ pulling!”

“Well, pull harder!”

“Dora, I can’t. I’m tired.”

“Woman up, and fucking _pull_! Dale! Uno, dos, y.... Arrgh!”

“Arrrgh!”

A resounding _snap_ emitted from the couch as Dora and Carla wedged it into the apartment.

“You...” Holly lamented, leaning down and inspecting the frame. Through the fabric, she noticed it had snapped somewhere. The whole couch, once sturdy down on the ground floor, was now wobbly and almost gelatinous. “You ruined my couch. Do you know how much I paid for this?”

Carla backed up to a wall and slid down, exhausted. “Not much? It was a used piece of shit to begin with, so get over yourself, Hol. It’s not much worse off.” She ran a hand through her sweat-drenched hair, pulling back the black and teal strands against her scalp. “At least it’s in here now.”

“Is that it, though?” Rochelle asked, just as sweaty. “That wasn’t much.” She gestured at the bed, dining table, chairs, and giant TV.

“I don’t own much stuff, to be honest,” Holly said. “Everything we moved in here, I bought off Craigslist just yesterday. I’ve got a few boxes of small shit to bring over from Selina's, but I can do that myself tomorrow.”

“Good,” Dora groaned.

“I didn’t know your building was a walk-up. And that the apartments were so _small_ ,” Holly said, looking around the tiny flat. “I always wondered why your family didn’t just live in your own building, but I get it now. There’s barely enough room for a couple.”

“I dunno,” said Rochelle, looking around. “Ben and I could make due. It’s not much smaller than our flat two blocks down... If Dora cuts us a deal on rent like she did you, I’d move in.”

Holly’s “new” apartment was a studio, just like the other dozen units in the Montgomery building. Just two rooms: a main room that served all at once as a living area, bedroom, and kitchen; and a tiny walled-off bathroom with a standing shower not big enough to bath in. The floors creak when stepped on. Cockroaches crawled in and out of a network of cracks that adorned the walls.

“I told you how old the building was a ton of times,” Dora told Holly. “You’ve heard me complain about it, and you come around here three or four times a week. You never noticed it was a narrow building with no elevator before you decided to move in?”

“I only ever hung around your bar...” Holly began, but pinched her nose. She closed her eyes and took a breath. “Well, whatever the case, it’s better having my own place than just someone else’s couch, even if mine is crumbling piece of shit... But we’re done. No regrets. So thanks! How about something to eat? On me?”

“I’ve got food downstairs in the Alibi, if you’re hungry,” Dora offered. “The re-opening isn’t for a few more days, so we’ve got the run of the place, no interruptions.”

“Maybe I don’t know how it works here in the States, but aren’t flat-warming parties supposed to happen _inside_ the flat you just moved into?”

“This little dump of a place isn’t suited for a party, Rochelle,” Holly said, and quickly added, “No offense, Dora.”

“None taken. As assistant super, I wouldn’t let you throw a party in here anyway.”

“How about the roof?” Carla suggested. “Fresh air sounds really good right now.” She wiped sweat off her forehead.

“Heeeey, I like that idea,” Holly said, sliding down next to Carla on the floor and looking out her sole window. “The night sky, the cityscape. Sounds like a great place to chill.” She bumped shoulders with Carla and the two shared a look.

“Um...” Dora hesitated.

She didn’t like going up to the roof of the building unless she had to.

Every time she did, she was reminded of her father. Carla was never told about his suicide attempt. Dora wasn’t there to witness him jump, but she did recover him from the dumpster he had landed in unintentionally. Every time she looked at a ledge up there, she pictured a shadow of her father stepping off.

Carla and Holly exchanged an impatient look, and Dora realized that the two girls were less than two years apart. Fourteen and sixteen years old. For them, the roof was a more appropriate venue for a party than a bar. “Alright. Fine. The roof it is.”

“Well, now that’s settled. What pizza place?” Rochelle asked.

Immediately, Dora, Carla, and Holly voiced their choices, all different; all increasing volume as they asserted the reasons why their choice was superior. Rochelle stood flabbergasted as the debate waged on, then tried to mediate as the discussion heated up to almost comical levels of pettiness and nuance. Rochelle learned ordering pizza in Gotham City wasn’t to be taken lightly.

After several minutes of argument, Dora shouted, “Okay, listen to me. Let’s say all three places are equally as good. Nope, _shut up_!” She held up her finger, demanding silence and attention. “Dan, the owner of DiDio’s, is an old friend of my dad’s. I always get a huge discount from him, even if I don’t ask, _plus_ it’s only right down the block so we won’t have to wait long.”

“Money isn’t an issue,” Holly insisted, holding up her rubber-banded wad of cash.

“Holly, take it from someone who knows a thing or two about money and how quickly it disappears.” Dora stepped toward her and kneeled so their eyes were level. “You can’t be sure what the future holds, so spend your money _wisely_ and save whenever you can. Especially in the line of work you’re in.”

There was grave weight in Dora’s words, which somehow cooled the tempers in the room. Holly groaned. “Fine, you win. DiDio’s it is.”

“Alright!” Dora said, hopping on to her feet. “I’ll go get the pizza myself, so we don’t have to tip for delivery.”

“Good idea,” Rochelle said. “I’ll keep you company.”

“Get the folding table and chairs set up while we’re gone.” Dora tossed Carla her keys.

#

Dora and Rochelle stepped out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. It was day, but hard to tell. The street ran north to south dividing two rows of multi-story buildings, with even taller ones on the blocks beyond. This meant most of Park Row was persistently cast in shadow during the day and it felt like night always descended on it early. People made their way along the sidewalks no matter the hour. Some hung outside the building entrances and on street corners, in their own conversations, but with a wary eye on any passerby. Cars drove along the cramped one-way road, competing for parking along the curb.

The street seemed different nowadays. It felt inexplicably safer, despite the fact that most of its residents were involved in some type of ongoing criminal business—whether they were victims or perpetrators. With Red Hood running most of organized crime in the borough, even illicit activities seemed less dangerous. Lately, it was easy to tell who supported him, because they wore red—of course. The most popular way to rep the Red Hood Gang was to wear a red hoodie or jacket, but Dora would see the occasional red hat, red shoes, or red t-shirt.

Although she was supportive, Dora deliberately avoided wearing red. Not only did she not like gang colors and gang culture, she didn’t want Detectives Bullock and Montoya to think she was involved with the Red Hood Gang, in case the GCPD were still watching her.

Dora and Rochelle passed by the front of the Alibi. A large banner hung over the plate-glass window, advertising: “ _REOPENING FRIDAY - HALF-PRICE DRAFT BEER & WELL DRINKS.”_

“When did you put that up?” Rochelle asked.

“This morning.”

“Do you need help setting up?”

“No, my mom and I got it covered. Take time off till Friday if you want,” Dora said, and stopped. She put her hand on Rochelle’s shoulder. “And listen. I really appreciate all your help during this whole mess.”

“No problem, I was happy to do it. Sometimes I think you forget that I’m not just your best friend, I’m also your employee.”

“Well, either way, I promise to pay you back for all the work you put into the rebuild, just once the cash starts flowing again. Hopefully this half-off promotion works.”

Rochelle laughed and pulled Dora into a tight hug. “Oh god, thanks! I was so afraid to ask. Ben and I really needed the money, but I didn’t want to stress you out. You already have enough to deal with.”

“Don’t worry about. I’ll feel much better once the Alibi’s up and running again. I just want things to get back to normal.”

“Well, as normal as you can get while dating a wanted criminal,” Rochelle teased, nudging Dora as they walked.

“How many times have I told you that we’re not dating?”

“How else would you describe your relationship?”

Dora walked silently, pondering. “It's complicated.”

Rochelle snickered. “Let’s just call you guys friends with benefits then.”

Dora rolled her eyes.

What use was it trying to correct Rochelle? Dora herself didn’t even know what she meant to Red Hood. She didn’t know what he meant to her either.

#

The appetizing scent of baked cheese and dough wafted from under the lids of the boxes. “Hurry up, I’m hungry,” Dora urged. She and Rochelle were back in the Alibi, having just returned from DiDio’s. “Wait, what are you putting in there?”

“Well, er...” Rochelle looked down at the little plastic crate she had packed with cups, ice, and drinks. “I’ve got some ice, Coke, Club Soda, Bud, Angry Orchard, Blue Moon, Smirnoff...”

“Why the hell are you bringing up all that booze for?”

“Erm... cuz it’s a party?”

“Carla and Holly are _minors_ , Rochelle. You’re a bartender, you should know better.”

Rochelle looked incredulous. “Dee, where were you last weekend? I coulda sworn you were at the Iceberg Lounge with _us_ , because then you’d remember that _Holly already drinks_.” She spoke each word slowly for emphasis. “Holly can out-drink us both under the table. Hell, she probably knows more about men than both of us together. Why are you being such a stickler now?”

“Because Carla’s with us tonight.”

“What difference does that make?”

Dora glared at Rochelle. “Because she’s my _sister_. Because she’s _fourteen_ years old.”

“You put in almost as much effort looking after Holly as you do Carla. Isn’t it a bit hypocritical that you don’t mind Holly drinking underage, while you won’t let Carla do the same?”

“Well, I _do_ mind that Holly drinks, but unfortunately, as much as I love her, I don’t control her life. However, I _do_ have a say in Carla’s.”

“Come on, I know you’re not that naive. Carla drinks too.”

“And smokes tobacco, and marijuana, and used to smoke crack. She’s _fourteen_. I...” Dora paused, a twinge of shame tightening her chest. Her eyes began to water, but she held onto the tears. “I didn’t pay enough attention to Carla the past few years. I was so busy with school and the clinic and trying to help my dad recover that I didn’t notice my little sister needed me to be a proper role model.”

“That’s not on you. Your mum—”

“My mom tried, but she had her hands full with work and my baby sister Mercy. You met Mercy, she has special needs.”

“Oh, that’s right...” Rochelle said, looking sorry. “It’s still no one’s fault—”

“Look, it’s fine.” Dora traded her pizza boxes for Rochelle’s crate and removed the alcohol. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not mad, just... My dad was an alcoholic, and I’ll be damned if I let my little sister become one too.”

“Gotcha, Dee.” Rochelle smiled softly. She bumped elbows with Dora as they walked next door to the apartments’ lobby. “I wish I had a sister like you looking out for me while I was growing up. If I had, I probably would’ve stayed back in Melbourne.”

“I’m glad you’re here, though, Rochelle. I don’t think I could have survived this long in Gotham without you.”

“Please, you survived through six months of anarchy after the earthquake.”

“Yeah, but I had my dad with me back then.”

On the way up the stairs, they talked about the earthquake and how Monty used his building to house and protect victims in the aftermath, and how Dora got close to Leslie while helping with her humanitarian efforts. Melancholy took over. She thought of how close she was to her father and Leslie then, but also how estranged she became from her mother.

They reached the rooftop landing. Hands full, Dora kicked the door open. Cool night air rushed into the stairwell, refreshing after climbing five flights of stairs. The sky was so black, it was impossible to make out the stars. Taller buildings flanked the Montgomery building on both sides. Their upper floors had easy vantages of Dora’s sparse rooftop.

The back half of the rooftop, near the alley and the fire escapes, housed the power units. The front half of the roof faced Park Row itself, and had an uncovered wooden canopy strung with lights. Underneath were barren brick planters—no flowers, just weeds. A tall water tower loomed overhead on rattling scaffolding and piping. Its side bore letters that once said “Montgomery,” but the paint had since faded away and gotten covered by too many gang tags to distinguish it anymore. Right below the water tower was a shed Monty had built to store tools, parts, and supplies for the super.

Dora looked at the deserted rooftop, brows knit. “I thought I told Holly and Carla...”

“... to set up the table and chairs,” Rochelle said. “Yeah, I heard you say that.”

“Maybe they’re still down in the apartment.” Dora put down the pizza boxes. “I’ll get everything set up. You go find them.”

As Rochelle walked back to the stairwell, Dora went to the shed where the folding tables and chairs were stored.

Something clattered inside the shed, then an indistinct voice groaned, “Don’t! Stop! Please!” It sounded female, out of breath, and desperate.

“What was that?” Rochelle asked.

They heard a thud on the floor. The rustling and whimpering continued. At least two people were in the shed, doing... Dora was afraid to imagine, but she knew either Carla or Holly, or both, were in trouble inside. Her heart sank, weighed down by dread. The Escabedo Cartel must have sent a sicario for revenge. It had only been a matter of time and Red Hood was not here to save her.

The situation was in her hands, no time to call the cops. She had to maintain her composure. Dora carefully placed the crate down and held up a finger to her lips, signalling Rochelle to be silent. Drawing a folding knife and a small can of pepper spray from her jacket, she beckoned Rochelle back. Ever since the night of the shooting, she carried them everywhere. She gestured Rochelle into position by the shed, but remained silent. Tossing Rochelle the knife, Dora nodded at the door.

Rochelle nodded back tensely, gripping the knife with white knuckles. It was clear she didn’t know how to hold it, but some backup was better than nothing. She snuck to the door of the shed and grabbed the handle.

Dora counted down with her fingers. _Three, two, one..._

Rochelle pulled the door open and stepped away. Dora rushed into the shed, pepper spray at the ready.

What she saw made her lower the weapon.

Carla was pinned against the wall, moaning and breathless, her legs wrapped around...

_Holly?_

Holly massaged the crook of Carla’s neck with her lips while her hands maneuvered inside Carla’s shirt, so passionately that tools fell off the pegboard behind them.

-

v0.4.22.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect this to get so long. In my plot outline, chapters #12, #13, and #14 were all a single chapter, but as I wrote them, they got longer. (If you haven't noticed, this happens to me a lot.)
> 
> I found that this was the perfect opportunity to not only develop some characters (like Holly and Carla), but also expand on the Montgomery building, which I almost consider a character in and of itself. I wanted to emphasize that while Dora's family owns a whole building in what is basically New York, it doesn't mean that they're well off, as most real estate owners are expected to be nowadays. Before now I only portrayed the exteriors, the Alibi, and the cellar in detail, but seeing as the whole place is a memento of Dora's father, and her livelihood not only depends on the revenue from the bar, but the apartments upstairs as well, they needed some screentime. This was unabashedly inspired by season 7 of Shameless. Fiona Gallagher is a key influence on Dora's character, if you haven't noticed yet.
> 
> And this isn't needless filler and exposition. I'm trying to set up some stuff here that will come into play later. For instance, I'm planning for the rooftop to be part of an important set piece in the ending (and a little sooner as well). I just hope it's enjoyable.
> 
> Likes and feedback welcome!


	14. From Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Dora comes to terms with Holly and Carla's relationship, someone else wants to criticize her own relationship with Red Hood.

**Chapter 14: From Shadows**

Holly and Carla continued snogging for several moments while just Dora stood there—stunned and unable to speak. The two girls were so consumed with each other they hadn’t even noticed her barging in.

Rochelle walked in and guffawed—loudly. Only then did Holly break the embrace. Carla pushed her away, a blush glowing on her face. Holly on the other hand didn’t seem at all embarrassed. A smirk tugged on the corner of her mouth.

“So, Dee.” Holly wiped her lips with a thumb. “Are we even now?”

It took a second for Dora to understand. _What are you talking about? I never made out with_ your _sister... Oh._

The realization dawned on her and anger bloomed in her chest. She glared at Holly with wide eyes, conveying: _You better not tell Carla about me and Red Hood._ Whether or not Holly received the message, Dora pointed between her and Carla, asking, “How long has this been going on?”

Holly stepped forward. “Okay, Dee—”

“No,” Dora snapped, holding up her hand. “I was talking to Carla.”

Carla shuffled on her feet nervously, buttoning up her jeans. “Holly and I have, uh... been hanging out for a few weeks. We met the night I was running product for the LU. The night the sicarios trashed the bar and tried to kill us, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Holly got me out of there. I...” Carla looked at the ground. “... I was a complete mess. Scared shitless. Holly brought me back to my senses and made sure I got home safe.”

“I know, I told her to. And I was grateful for that.” Dora locked eyes with Holly, but expressed nothing. “Go on.”

Carla continued. “After that, we started seeing each other a lot. At first, it wasn’t on purpose. We just ran into each other around the Alibi, during the rebuild, y’know? We’d walk home together sometimes.”

“I was just trying to keep the heat off her,” Holly stepped in. “What’s left of the Escobedo Cartel and the False Facers are still at war with Red Hood. They want payback for the coke they think Carla stole, but they also think that Red Hood is keeping tabs on you and me and Rochelle. Like... his enemies attacked us _twice_ , right? And every single person that did ended up dead, _twice_. Actually, in my case, it was three fucking times, right? You’d think that hanging around with us would be dangerous as fuck, but thanks to Red Hood... gangsters are too afraid to fuck with us now. As long as Carla stays close to one of us three, she’s safer than anyone else in Gotham.”

“I...” Dora’s resolute disapproval faltered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think Carla was in danger anymore,” she admitted. “I thought Red Hood won over Park Row, became head of the mob, and that was that. I was so focused on getting the bar running again, I didn’t realize there was still a fucking _war_ going on.”

“That’s okay. You had a lot to deal with,” Holly said.

“It’s not okay. It’s my responsibility to look after my family. I’m sorry, Holly. I never asked you to escort my sister around.”

Holly stepped closer to Carla, a small smile on her face. “You never had to ask. I wanted to.”

Carla held Holly’s hand and they interlaced fingers. “Yeah, at first we stuck together just for safety. Then it started being fun. Then that led to... this. You were so busy rebuilding Dad’s bar, Dora, you never noticed.”

Dora stared at their entwined hands and studied their body language. It was serious between those two. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“It’s still fresh,” Holly said. “We’re just figuring things out.”

“ _I_ was figuring things out. Figuring myself out,” Carla said.

“What do you mean?” Dora asked.

“I wasn’t ready to come out yet,” Carla admitted.

Dora scoffed. “I don’t care that you’re gay. I care that you hid this relationship from me.”

“Actually, I’m bi,” Carla corrected.

“ _I’m_ gay,” Holly added.

“Um.” Dora paused, looking back and forth between the two of them, digesting the distinction.

Rochelle finally spoke up, looking confused. “But Holly, your job... Your old job, I mean.”

Holly rolled her eyes. “I was straight for pay, Rocky. You’d be too if you did what I did for a living.”

“Whatever!” Dora finally shouted, waving her hands to dispel the confusion. “Gay, bi, straight for pay. It doesn’t matter! I’m cool that you’re bi, Carla. I’m not cool that you _lied_ to me all this time.”

“I never lied!”

“Omission is just as bad as lying! How many times have we talked about that?”

“Whatever, I couldn’t tell you! You know Mami, she’d freak the fuck out, and you’re always such a snitch!”

“I’m not a snitch!”

“You tell that pendeja everything.”

“I don’t!” Dora insisted honestly, to her own discomfort. She probably hid as many things from their mother as Carla did, but of course Carla didn’t see it that way. If their mother ever found out how close she had been with Red Hood... Dora didn’t want to think about it. “And don’t call Mami ‘pendeja,’ you have no idea the sacrifices she and I have made for you. You can’t—”

“Mierda, what fucking sacrifices?”

Her temper finally ignited. Dora broke out into a flurry of rapid, heated, unintelligible Spanish. She jabbed her finger into Carla’s chest, emphasizing a point Rochelle and Holly could not understand. Rochelle had to pull her back, because Carla looked ready to hit her.

“Be honest, Dora,” Holly said, holding Carla back. “It doesn’t bother you that Carla’s in a gay relationship. It bothers you that she’s in a relationship with _me._ ”

Dora opened her mouth to speak but her mind was blank.

That was all the confirmation Holly needed. “I fucking knew it.”

Dora shrugged off Rochelle’s grasp. “Okay, fine, yeah. I’m not totally cool with it. Holly, look.... You’re my friend. I know you’re a good person, and I love you, but you’re involved with some... let’s say ‘pretty shady’ people.”

“And you’re not?” Holly snapped back.

Carla looked at Dora with narrow eyes.

 _Don’t go there._ Dora warned Holly, using only a withering look.

Holly did not mind and carried on. “Oh, I see what it is. You think I’m not good enough for your sister. Is that it? You don’t want her dating a dropout homeless hooker that fucked the assholes that killed your dad? Huh? You think I’m a bad influence? Well, that’s not who I am anymore, Dee, and I thought—I _hoped_ —you of all people would understand! That I did what I had to do to _survive_ in this crapsack city! That I never wanted to be a whore! That I’ve changed since... Since...”

 _Red Hood_ , Dora assumed. “I’m not saying that...” she said, but realized she had been saying exactly what Holly was thinking. If her little sister was dating someone, Dora wanted it to be someone who wasn’t a criminal, even if that person did bad things for good reasons. Her chest tightened with shame knowing how hypocritical she was, lusting after Red Hood, but she still wanted the best for her little sister. She wanted her little sister to be better than her, to not fall for an outlaw that would ruin her life or get her killed.

Dora backed up and leaned against the wall, dazed. Her brain was whirring, trying to reconcile all the contradictions and hypocrisy.

“Dee, are you okay?” Rochelle asked, rubbing her back.

“I’m fine.” Dora’s attention snapped back to the moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but a month ago? You’d _both_ be bad influences on each other.” She pointed at Holly then at Carla. “A hooker and a drug dealer.  Carla, I know you’ve left the LU behind, but Holly, you’re still working for an illegal brothel.”

“It’s still a far cry from what I was doing before,” Holly said.

“But do you see where I’m coming from? No reasonable parent would want either of you dating their kid,” Dora said. There was hurt in Holly’s face, but also a measure of understanding. That’s what she wanted: some concession. “But okay, Holly, you’ve got a point, and I’m sorry. You’ve both come a long way. You both know the consequences of running with thugs and messing with the law, so just do me a favor?”

“What’s that?” Holly asked.

“Be careful and keep each other safe. Can you do that for me? Watch each other’s backs. That goes for you too, Carla. Look after Holly. If anything happens to either of you, call me ASAP.”

The two girls exchanged a long look. “We promise.”

“Thank you.” Dora let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Holly and Carla enveloped Dora in a hug, and she felt a massive weight lifted from her chest.

“Hey,” Rochelle said, breaking the silence. “I guess it’s not just a flat warming party, but a coming out party too. All the more reason to eat this pizza before it gets cold.”

#

Pizza and soda pop did a surprisingly good job of breaking the ice, especially once the “best pizza in Park Row” debate reignited. Rochelle’s fiance Ben showed up with a box of beers, some playing cards, and his goofy sense of humor, lightening the mood further. His reaction to Carla and Holly’s relationship was an awkward pause and “that’s hot,” which sparked an entertaining series of reprimands from Rochelle about his male gaze and how it was disgusting he was looking at two underage girls in such a way. Ben groveled for forgiveness, and Rochelle eventually let him know that she was just taking the piss out of him. To Dora’s gratitude, Ben supported her when she refused to share the beers he had brought with Carla and Holly.

After several games of gin and poker (with Holly winning most often), Rochelle and Ben told everyone good night and headed home. Dora and Carla played one game of blackjack to determine who would stay back to clean all the mess and put away the furniture. Carla won, but Dora didn’t mind. Her little sister appeared tired anyway.

“How about you stay here tonight?” Dora asked.

Carla perked up a bit. “What, you’re really okay with me sleeping here?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“That’s... surprisingly cool of you. Mami would never let me stay the night over at a boy’s house.”

Dora narrowed her eyes. “I... don’t understand what you...”

“Hear that, Holly? Dora says I can stay with you tonight!”

Holly was by the ledge of the roof, waving goodbye to Rochelle and Morgan. She turned back. “What, really? Great!”

“No, I meant with me in the basement,” Dora tried to say, but Carla and Holly were too busy hugging and celebrating to hear. They discussed what movie to watch and suddenly Carla didn’t seem so tired anymore.

Dora paused and thought for a few moments. As her older sister, was it her right to dictate the terms of Carla’s relationship? Was there a double standard for underage same-sex couples? There was no risk of pregnancy, but Dora felt that fourteen years old was still too soon. Had she and Holly taken it farther than they had in the shed? Was Carla a virgin? Either in the lesbian sense or traditional sense? What even counted as full sexual intercourse for lesbians? It was probably too late to worry about STDS... The implications made her head spin.

“You can stay with Holly tonight, but I just have to talk to her first,” Dora said loudly, interrupting their discussion. “Alone.”

Holly and Carla exchanged a look, but agreed to separate. Carla walked to the stairwell, looking back the whole way, but eventually left.

Now alone with Holly, Dora said, “Look, I don’t know how sex works with lesbians—”

“It's not that hard to figure out, Dee.” Holly looked almost insulted, but a moment later Dora could tell she was joking.

“I’m not talking about the... the physical mechanisms or whatever, I’m talking about all the messy emotional stuff. Gender is irrelevant. When it’s between two adults, sure, it's simple. Well, it’s _not_ always, but... you get what I mean. It’s just... when it’s between two teenagers, it’s not so clean cut...” She didn’t know how to explain.

“I don’t get what you mean,” Holly said, frowning.

“I don’t know what I mean either,” Dora admitted, frustrated. “I’m just trying to say that if it’s not too late... take it slow with Carla, okay? She’s still a kid. _You’re_ still a kid, Holly. Just... make sure she’s _ready._ And wait for her if she isn’t _._ ”

Holly took pause at that. She knit her brows and locked eyes with Dora for a long moment. The two were gauging each other’s sincerity, and they both knew it.

“Listen, Dee. I don’t always rush into sex. The way I approached sex with clients is different than how I approach people I’m actually attracted to—people I actually care about. In that line of work, you learn to...” Holly frowned, thinking. “What’s the word Selina used... compart... You learn to _compartmentalize_. Separate it all in your head. Build walls and put parts of yourself in different rooms. And it’s not that I’m casual with guys, and that I’m serious with girls because I’m gay. I’ve had female clients too. I treat Carla differently because I care about her. She told me I’m the first girl she’s ever been with, so I’m letting her set the pace right now. I want her to feel comfortable and safe, because I don’t want to lose her. I hope you understand that.”

Dora smiled. “I do. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Holly smiled back, but got so giddy she pulled Dora into a hug. “Need help clearing up?” she asked. “If I take long enough, Carla might fall asleep and nothing will happen tonight. Not that I was planning on taking another base or anything.”

A small laugh escaped Dora. She had already started folding the chairs. “No, don’t worry. I got this. Go ahead and enjoy your new apartment.”

Holly walked away with not another word, her good mood evident in her stride.

Finally alone on the rooftop, Dora mentally unpacked and sorted everything that had happened, all while cleaning up the trash and putting away the folding furniture. The day was as emotionally exhausting as physically—she was drained.

After clearing everything else off the roof, she turned off the canopy lights and left behind just one chair, her dad’s lounger. She faced it toward the street, and reclined the back rest so that it faced the skyline. She pulled out a flask from her pocket and took a sip from the Lagavulin inside. The alcohol tickled her tongue and seared her throat. It settled in her stomach, warm. She closed her eyes as a shiver spread across her shoulders and back. The rest of her body tingled pleasantly.

Another sip, and she was transported back to that night Red Hood visited. The night she had kissed him. The night they almost...

She wondered if he would appear in her dreams like he did every other night. If he haunted her alone, without a pack  of ravenous ghouls, she wouldn’t mind.

She had an intrusive thought. Was there an actual possibility she could have a legitimate relationship with the man under the Red Hood? Did she even want one? All common sense dictated that she couldn’t, but that didn’t stop her from feeling the way she did. Holly and Carla seemed like an unlikely couple and it appeared like they could make it work. Why couldn’t she and Red Hood?

Sirens and gunshots sounded in the distance.

Dora opened her eyes. Looking through the corridor of high-rise buildings, she saw flashing red and blue lights and a helicopter shining a spotlight over the bridge in the distance. There was some type of commotion happening across the river. Knowing this city, it likely involved a member of the Bat crew and one of their rogues.

But that was miles away and Dora knew she would hear about it on the news tomorrow morning, so she wouldn’t let it bother her. She took another sip of the whiskey, her mouth lingering on the lip of the flask. Shuddering, she thought about _his_ lips, how they made her jaw melt, how they stole her breath. A different thought crossed her mind. _Is Red Hood in the middle of all that?_

A patrolling helicopter turned its searchlight in her direction, illuminating her rooftop and casting shadows. It seared her eyes just as she opened them. Dora recoiled and fell off the lounger. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, blinking several times. What was that weird shadow on the building across the street?

The searchlight moved on, enveloping the rooftop in darkness again. Replacing her glasses, she looked back at the other building, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dark again. It must have been a gargoyle casting a shadow. That was her cue to put away the whiskey and go to sleep.

She got up and folded the lounger chair. When she turned to the shed, she gasped, dropping it. Another odd shadow protruded from the water tower. She rushed to switch on the canopy lights, but they wouldn’t work.

The shadow moved and Dora flinched.

It was a person, perched on the ledge of the tower.

 “Red Hood?” she asked the figure. Almost every time he had appeared, it was from the shadows. The rooftop the first night they met, he descended from the night sky above. The second time was through the window of her bar from the dark street. The third time, the last and latest time... He walked into the Alibi’s kitchen from the darkened alley. Something in her stomach fluttered in anticipation. It had been weeks since she last saw him.

He leapt off the water tower.

But instead of the coattails of a motorcycle jacket flowing behind him, a long serrated cape unfurled. Leather wings dominated his silhouette.

“Oh shit.” Dora’s heart jumped in her chest, pounding.

He glided down to her, breaking his fall by rolling, but he still didn’t make a sound. Only a few feet away, it appeared like shadows followed him. He rose to his full height in front of her, much taller and heavier than Red Hood. His face was hidden by shadows, but his eyes glowed white.

He stepped forward, and Dora stepped back. With each step, he backed her into a wall. No escape. It felt like the air pressure increased and gravity got heavier. It was hard to breathe.

“We need to talk,” said the Batman.

 

v0.4.22.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nananananana... BATMAN!~
> 
> More cameos! I was originally going to wait a while to post this chapter, but I couldn't help myself. Seriously, guys, I've been waiting FOREVER for Batman to appear. The temptation to include him from the start was overwhelming, but I really wanted the story to focus on Dora first and foremost, and Red Hood second. Not only that, but I wanted to give his appearance the epic gravitas it deserved by making it unexpected, cinematic, and memorable. Too many fan fics feature Batman as a main or secondary character. I wanted Batman to be an event, a force of nature, an emphatic turning point for the plot. I wanted a single scene with Batman to change the course of the whole story. It's exactly how his appearances are portrayed in Red Hood and the Outlaws and I wanted to emulate that. I'm writing the next chapter VERY carefully.
> 
> On the other hand, I also really wanted to develop Holly and Carla's characters a bit more. I didn't plan on the two teenage girls coming together when I first conceived the story, but while reading No Man's Land, I learned Holly is a lesbian in the canon. The idea struck me to set her up with Carla, given their ages, and it wouldn't go away, and then here we are. I needed a foil for Dora's relationship with Red Hood and for her to experience some real hard criticism for her attraction to him, and the only other couple in the story, Rochelle and Ben, weren't able to do that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! And that I didn't cross some line by portraying two underage girls necking on the page. I tried to keep it PG-13. At least in this chapter.


	15. Interview With the Bat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman interrogates Dora about her relationship with Red Hood. Will he accept what she tells him?

** Chapter 15: Interview With the Bat **

Batman towered over her.

Dora’s eyes were level with the black bat symbol emblazoned across his huge chest. He was easily a foot and a half taller than her and twice her weight, and all of it was muscle. His heavy black and gray armor hid none of that muscle tone. A scowl was molded into the brow of his mask, but Dora could clearly tell he was also scowling underneath because his mouth and chin were exposed. His eyes were hidden behind glowing white lenses, but his glare was nonetheless withering.

Dora was keenly aware that she was backed into a corner and could not run away.

“We need to talk,” said Batman. His voice was rough and deep, like crashing thunder.

All of sudden, Dora was transported back to high school. She felt like a teen again, being scolded by the principal for cutting class. Everyone knew the GCPD might as well have been a joke. In Gotham, Batman was the law.

And you don’t fuck with the goddamn Batman.

She didn’t have to ask him what they needed to talk about. She knew.

“Red Hood,” she whimpered.

The muscles around Batman’s mouth tightened in affirmation.

Dora heard about how Batman interrogated people and she wasn’t keen on being dangled off the ledge of her roof, so she spilled. “He’s not here. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“I know,” Batman said. “The last time Red Hood was here, he stayed for over four hours.” Batman turned away from her and gave her space. However, he placed himself between Dora and the door to the stairs.

The space didn’t make Dora feel better, instead she felt a cold pang. This whole time she had been paranoid about the GCPD staking her out, not realizing that Batman could be watching too. What else did he know? Was he interrogating her or accusing her?

Dora swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “He came over to, uh... _talk_ about his protection money.”

“He’s extorting you.”

Dora shrugged. “Kinda. He says that I owe him 15% off my books for protection—for security—but he hasn’t collected. In fact, he took some cocaine...” Dora hesitated. She didn’t want to mention her sister was a drug dealer. “He, uh, _seized_ some drugs a few gangsters brought through here, said that would cover my dues for a while, until I was up and running again.”

Batman grunted. “That negotiation did not take four hours. What else happened?”

_Dammit._ People said Batman had no superpowers, but he was pretty keen at detecting bullshit. Dora took a breath, trying to calm her nerves. “Those narcos that came through fucked up my bar... And well, Red Hood fucked up my bar even more by getting rid of them. So, um, he stayed for a bit to help me fix it up.”

“Odd that he bothered,” Batman noticed.

“Is it? Maybe he’s just a nice guy.” Dora hoped that was enough of a reason for Batman.

Batman turned to face her again. His gaze was scalding. “Don’t be fooled. He’s a criminal. You’ve seen firsthand how dangerous he is.”

“ _You’re_ dangerous,” Dora snapped without thinking. “He’s a vigilante like you.”

She immediately regretted it. Batman bared his teeth and clenched his fists. Dora pressed herself into the wall.

“I am dangerous,” he said. “But I don’t kill people.”

“No, listen, please. He wants to _control_ crime in Gotham instead of getting rid of it. Vice is human nature. As long as people desire money, drugs, sex, power... there will always be crime, and they will _never_ stop wanting those things. You can’t cure crime, but you can treat it. Run it in a way so people don’t get hurt. So that it benefits people.”

“He told you that, didn’t he?” Batman sneered.

Dora faltered. “He... did. Yeah.”

“He told you his manifesto. You must be special.”

“I’m... not,” she denied. In truth, she didn’t actually know. Was she special to Red Hood?

Batman stepped toward her. “Enough. Who is he?”

“What?”

“Don’t mess around. Who is Red Hood?” He closed in.

There was no space to move back, Dora’s back was to the wall of the shed. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t fool me, Dora Silva. He goes out of his way to protect _you_. He extorts everyone in this neighborhood but _you_. He spends inordinate amounts of time with _you_. He waxes poetic about his ideals. With. _You_.”

“What—” Then Dora screamed.

Batman lunged forward.

She tried to duck away, but he grabbed her by the collar of her jacket. With almost no visible effort, he picked her up, lifting her so her feet dangled above the ground and her eyes were level with his.

“Who is Red Hood?” he growled. The glowing white lenses in his glare were searing, penetrating.

“I don’t know.”

Batman shook Dora and she screamed again. “Who is he? Tell me his name!”

“I don’t know!” Dora sobbed. She was so scared she began to cry.

“You’re lying!”

“No! Please!” Dora cried. “I swear, I don’t know who he is!”

“TELL ME THE TRUTH!” he barked, shaking her so hard the seams of her jacket started to tear.

Dora was certain he would not kill her, but she did not want to bungee jump off the edge of her roof. She had to give him _something_. “I don’t know his name, I swear! He took off his helmet in front of me, but he had another mask underneath it!”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because we were talking!”

“What happened that night? Tell me everything!”

Dora was crying all out now. “He took off his helmet because we were drinking! We talked and then... then...”

“What happened?” Batman shouted.

“We kissed!” Dora finally admitted.

Batman snarled and dropped her. She hit the gravel on the roof flat on her ass. Batman kneeled in front of her. “What did he look like?” He didn’t yell this time, but his voice was still firm.

Dora wiped the tears from her eyes. “He’s white, I think. Black hair. The mask hid his eyes. Kinda looks like Nightwing.”

Batman growled and stood. “This is your warning, Dora Silva. Do not get involved with Red Hood. I’m watching you.”

Just then, the door to the roof slammed open. Dora turned to see Holly and Carla rushing out. “What’s going on? What’s with all the yelling?”

Dora turned back around, but the Dark Knight had disappeared. “Where’d he go?”

“Where did who go?” Carla asked. “We heard someone yelling at you from downstairs. Who was it?”

Dora stared wide-eyed around the rooftop. He had vanished like a ghost. “It was... Batman.”

Holly gawked. “Holy shit, _Batman_ was here?”

Carla helped Dora up, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “What did he do to you? You’re shaking!”

Dora swallowed, her throat was dry. She locked eyes with Holly.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Holly asked.

Dora nodded wearily. “Yeah. And he doesn’t like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting FOREVER to write this chapter. Tell you what, it was super fun writing Batman. I've always wanted to sit behind the wheel and steer the Dark Knight, but I never did until now because I wanted to do it right.
> 
> Tell you something else, I shouldn't have waited. Oddly enough, for this appearance of Batman, I drew inspiration from probably the WORST Batman comic ever written, All Star Batman & Robin. Don't get me wrong, I loved reading it, but mostly because the artwork was top notch. Jim Lee's one of my favorite comic book artists, but gawd-damn Frank Miller's writing is fucking terrible. The story has no discernible plot, Batman is a psychotic asshole who finds pleasure killing people while physically and emotionally abusing Robin. Like he literally slaps the kid around and bullies him, it's disgusting. It's so bad they cancelled the series, despite the great artwork.
> 
> Anyway, I chose that version of Batman mostly because a friend argued that Frank Miller's portrayal of him is probably what most criminals and civilians in Gotham view him as. Given their one-sided point-of-view: not knowing his true identity, back story, and motivations like we do, he comes across as a deranged sociopath that cripples criminals for life instead of killing them not just because it's justice, it's punishment. You can't be a criminal if you can't walk, see, or hear, right? Fear, gravitas, and general "oh shit, it's fucking Batman!" factor was what I was going for in this appearance, and I hope I got it across. Hence, the small "goddman Batman" remark, made infamous by Frank Miller.
> 
> P.S. Yes, the title is a reference to Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire.


	16. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bar's grand reopening is a flop, meaning all the money and work Dora put into it was for nothing. Desperate, she ignores Batman's warning and tries to make a deal with the Red Hood Gang.

**Chapter 16: Desperate Measures**

Dora found it difficult explaining to Carla what she and Holly meant by "Batman knows and he doesn't like it."

Carla was already aware that Red Hood had saved Dora, Rochelle, and Holly the first night he appeared in Gotham. She was aware that Red Hood had killed all the thugs that trashed the Alibi and tried to steal the cocaine she was running. She knew that Red Hood was extorting the Alibi. Finally, Carla was also aware that he was the pimp that owned the brothel Holly worked for. She asked Dora and Holly very difficult questions they were not prepared for.

In a roundabout and confusing conversation, Dora and Holly managed to convince Carla that the secret Batman knew and didn't like was that Dora had given Red Hood the cocaine she stole in exchange for a break on protection money. Carla found it unfair.

"If you refused to hand it over, how were you supposed to stop him from taking it anyway?" Carla complained. "And you didn't ask for that break. He just gave it to you, cuz he's cool like that."

Frankly, Dora agreed. All she could say was that Batman didn't see it that way, and they were lucky the police didn't know as well.

For some consolation, it was half the truth. Luckily, Carla remained unaware that Dora had kissed Red Hood and nearly had sex with him. The fewer people knew about their relationship, no matter how fruitless it was, the better—especially her at-risk sister, who she had to set an example for.

The next day, while having dinner at Rochelle's apartment, Dora told her about what happened—she was her best friend, she had to. Rochelle was just as amazed as Holly and Carla had been, but she was scared as well.

"Oh shit, Dee. Batman's no joke." The girls were making spaghetti for themselves. Ben was still at work.

"You don't think I know that?" Dora put down the cheese grater in frustration.

"No, listen. You gotta put the brakes on what's going on with you and Red Hood."

Dora scoffed, almost insulted. "What fucking brakes? Whatever's going between us is going nowhere. It barely even started." She still hated when people assumed she and Red Hood were together or something. Before their night alone in the cellar, it wasn't true. After that kiss... actually  _multiple_ kisses, getting undressed, and nearly having sex... It still wasn't true. No matter how physically attracted she was to him, she still didn't want to be his girlfriend. She couldn't. A relationship made no sense. He was a... vigilante? Not quite. A villain? Not quite that either. Either way, he was an outlaw. It could never work.

"You okay?" Rochelle asked, snapping her fingers.

Dora shook her head, trying dispel her rambling thoughts. "Yeah, fine."

Rochelle shrugged, stirring the sauce. "At the very least you gotta be more careful to avoid shit he's involved in."

"Like what? I'm not—" Then it struck her.

Rochelle gave her a look and nodded.

"You mean Holly?"

"Well, if Batman knows that Red Hood spent time with you, he's gotta know that Holly works for him. That dude knows everything."

"I'm not going to evict Holly after I just let her move into my building and gave her permission to date my sister. Plus she's my  _friend_."

The sauce began to bubble, so Rochelle lowered the temperature and stirred it. "No, I mean that deal with Holly's boss you're thinking about, about posting working girls in the bar. Batman's  _not_  going to like that."

Batman's baritone voice echoed in her head.  _"This is your warning, Dora Silva. Do not get involved with Red Hood. I'm watching you."_

Dora realized Rochelle was right. After dinner, she called Holly and cancelled her meeting with Ma Gunn. Holly tried to talk her out of it, saying Batman couldn't do anything about it, but Dora set her foot down. She didn't want to risk getting his attention again. She didn't know what it meant, but Batman would probably tell the police about her deal with Red Hood and she was sure that was enough for serious jail time. Every Gothamite knew that Batman was sometimes an informant for the Commissioner of the police.

The Abili reopened on Friday afternoon. Dora scheduled Rochelle to wait tables, Carla to bus dishes, Ben to cook, and her mother Anita to bartend. Dora filled in where ever was needed. But as it turned out, she need not have bothered.

The grand re-opening of the Alibi was a flop.

Only a sparse crowd showed up opening night, no more than they usually got before the bar was trashed then renovated. A few old regulars commented on the new fixtures, but there wasn't much hype to go around.

Due to the disappointing turnout that first night, Anita tried advertising a "buy one, get one half-off" special on top of the extended happy hour prices for Saturday night... but there was no improvement.

During the day and evening, the Alibi's usual clientele consisted of the blue-collar crowd. Late at night, after dark, was when the dissidents came through—people that made their living on crime and otherwise illicit nocturnal endeavors.

Not one of those people came in for the opening weekend.

The regulars Dora and Anita knew by name, the guys that had been friends of her dad back in the day, quickly stop showing up. The Alibi was a veritable ghost town.

Rochelle suggested that Batman had scared them off, but Dora was sure that nobody knew about his visit. Everyone did know, on the other hand, about Red Hood's numerous visits and all the murders that occured at the Alibi recently. No wonder they were scared shitless to go there. The place was "hot"—in the bad sense.

A week went by and the next Friday rolled around with another pitiful turnout and meager earnings to show for it. The bar simply wasn't making enough money to cover its operating costs and pay back the loans Dora had taken out. She would fall behind on her debts and lose the building to the banks.

Desperate, Dora finally relented. Batman could go fuck himself, she had a family to provide for.

She told Holly, "Tell Ma Gunn I want to meet as soon as possible."

**#**

The Gotham City Subway was a cavernous labyrinth. Rushing trains screeched by, leaving a wake of litter that tumbled across the floor and piled up in corners. Torn ad posters peeled away from shattered displays. Graffiti blazoned the walls. Homeless people loitered by the turnstiles and gates. Some begged, some talked to themselves, others just slept. Cockroaches and rats skittered around underfoot. The few working lights overhead flickered and hummed incessantly—leaving the subway dark and dingy.

People who could afford to avoid the subway often called it a dungeon. Although she resented privileged people who called it that, Dora had to admit they weren't wrong. Having taken the subway all her life, she was used to it, but she was still anxious and fidgety while waiting on the bench.  _Where is she?_

Holly descended the stairs, walking by the camps of the homeless, sharing glances of familiarity with a few of them. She kicked a rat that skittered over to gnaw on her shoe. With a squeak, it tumbled off the platform. Looking around, Holly saw Dora sitting on a bench on the far end of the platform. Before she could walk over, Dora pulled out her phone and jabbed in a text message.

Holly checked her phone, then stopped walking.

" _Stay where you are. Don't come over to me,_ " the text said.

Holly looked at the message, baffled. " _Y wats wrong?"_ she replied.

" _Did you bring the stuff?_ " Dora texted back.

" _Yah."_  Holly double-checked inside the plastic shopping bag she was carrying.

" _Take the bag, go to the bathroom, and put it in the stall furthest away from the door._ "

_"A dead drop? R u serious?"_

_"Just do it!"_

Rolling her eyes, Holly pocketed her phone and obeyed. When she exited, Dora passed by her as if she were a stranger. Holly looked almost offended.

A minute later, Dora reappeared from the bathroom. Her outfit changed. She was wearing a baggy red hoodie that obscured her figure, a slouchy black beanie that covered her hair, and large aviator sunglasses that masked her face. She finally acknowledged Holly, saying, "Thanks."

Holly snickered and shook her head. "You look like one of those hipsters from Burnside. You're not fooling anyone."

Dora glared at her from behind the sunglasses. "Fuck off."

Before now, Dora was opposed to wearing a red hoodie or any red clothes, not wanting to publicly appear as if she supported Red Hood and his organization. She did in some ways, but she didn't want a target literally painted on her back. Batman and the GCPD already didn't like that Red Hood favored her for some reason. However, Red Hood was gaining support all over Park Row and the other derelict neighborhoods of Gotham, so people in red hoodies and clothes were a dime a dozen. Wearing red nowadays was actually inconspicuous.

"Why did you want to meet here?" Holly asked. "We could've left together from your building and walked the fifteen blocks to the meeting spot. Heck, we coulda taken your rusty old car. Coulda saved ourselves time and money."

"Cops are already watching me, and now Batman said he'd be keeping an eye on me too. I'm just trying to break a tail."

"It's the middle of the day. The dude thinks he's a fucking bat. He only comes out at night."

Dora checked her phone for the time. "I don't want to risk it. Batman knew way too much about what's going on at the Alibi. You've heard about all the gadgets he uses, right? That grappling gun, those exploding boomerangs, and that fucking transforming car-tank- _thing_  that drives itself. Wouldn't put it past him to have spy drones or something like that. It's like he's sponsored by WayneTech or LexCorp or something."

Holly rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Okay, okay, I see your point."

A high-pitched screech and a gust of wind interrupted their conversation. "Our train's here."

The girls only rode the train for one stop and got off. It actually overshot their destination by several blocks, but Dora was fine with that. The less sense her route made, the better.

Ma Gunn wanted to meet somewhere other than the brothel first, to see if Dora was worth trusting with the location. The meeting place was the Crescent Cafe, a quaint little coffee shop and bakery. Dora knew it well. Her father used to take her there on Sunday mornings while her mother and grandmother went to church, which was a few blocks down the street. Monty was never the religious type and that had rubbed off on Dora. The two would spend those mornings catching up on her week while he imparted his own wisdom and advice about whatever she was going through, often sharing his own stories about his younger years growing up in Gotham.

Later on, it was where he would meet with his sponsor from Alcoholics Anonymous. His sponsor, Waylon, didn't mind letting Dora sit with them during their conversations.

Dora hadn't been to the Crescent Cafe since he died.

Her chest panged just looking at the storefront from across the street. She longed to find her father waiting inside, ready to hear about everything that was going on with her. How would he feel learning that his beloved bar, the one that had been in his family for generations, was about to fold? What would he think of Red Hood? Would he support the deal she was about to make with Ma Gunn?

"Are you alright?" Holly asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Dora sniffled and blinked away the wetness in her eyes. "Yeah. Fine." Holly didn't need to know why this place was special.

Inside the cafe, Dora ordered a decaf mocha latte while Holly tried to order something fancy from Starbucks' menu that the baristas couldn't quite make. In the end, she also got a mocha latte, but with a shot of espresso.

While waiting, the coffee warmed up Dora, making the hoodie and beanie too uncomfortable to wear, so she took them off. If she was being followed or watched, either she had lost the tail or they were still on her. Either way, the disguise didn't matter anymore. It was a stupid idea anyway.

The last thing she took off was the sunglasses. She folded them carefully and hooked them into her collar. The aviator frames were her father's.  _Why is this such a nostalgic day?_  She wanted to abandon this whole meeting and find a quiet, private place to cry and scream and punch a wall and hug her pillow.

Holly saw Dora blinking away tears. "What is with you today, Dee? Here, you need this more than I do." She traded her espresso-spiked latte for Dora's decaf.

Dora took a long sip of the hot bitter liquid, trying to let the taste overpower her turbulent emotions.

"Oh, she's here." Holly nudged her elbow. Dora looked at the entrance of the cafe.

Ma Gunn walked in and she was not what Dora had expected.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this and the next chapter were one, but it was getting way too long, so I split it up. (I do that a lot, I know. I'm sorry!) Not much else to say about this chapter other than it marks a turning point in the story. From this point on, I'm trying to make Dora a more proactive character. I want her off her ass, pounding the pavement, doing shit and making things happen, instead of reacting to stuff beyond her control. I'm hoping it works out.
> 
> Stay tuned for Ma Gunn! I hope you like my portrayal of her!
> 
> P.S. There's a small Easter Egg! If you didn't catch it... Waylon, Dora's father's AA sponsor, is a reference to Waylon Jones, a.k.a. Killer Croc. If you didn't already know, Killer Croc is also Roy Harper/Arsenal's AA sponsor too. RIP Roy.


	17. Ma's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After negotiations with Ma Gunn, Dora finds out she may have gotten more than she bargained for.

** Chapter 17: Ma’s House **

When Dora imagined the madam of the brothel that Holly worked for, she conjured a voluptuous woman in her late-forties/early-fifties, adorned with tasteful makeup, salon-styled hair, and trendy clothes. After all, Holly claimed Ma Gunn was bringing a sense of class, ethics, and safety to prostitution in Park Row. To be blunt, Dora had pictured a bourgeois milf or cougar—a Jennifer Coolidge type.

Ma Gunn wasn’t anything like that.

The thin white woman that walked through the entrance of the cafe was a _crone_ , but not in the witch-like sense of the term. She wasn’t ugly, but her crinkled, papery, and almost-translucent skin suggested she was in her seventies, _at least_. Her hair was not gray, not salt-and-pepper, but pure snowy white. It was long, straight, smooth, and pulled back into a loose bun. Despite her age, Ma Gunn stood tall, fit, and straight-backed. She moved with such sure-footed poise that it seemed like she was gliding across the floor. The outfit she wore was another surprise. Dora could only describe it as a nun’s habit without the wimple—a maroon blouse with long sleeves and a white collar, paired with an ankle-length skirt of the same color that billowed around her plain flat shoes.

Ma Gunn strutted up to their table, fixing her bespectacled blue eyes on Dora and not wavering. “So this is her, Holly?”

“Yes, Ma,” she answered. Dora noticed a change in Holly’s body language. She sat straighter and with her knees together. She didn’t look directly at Ma’s eyes.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Silva. Holly has told me much about you.” Ma Gunn offered her hand. She had trimmed nails and no rings.

Dora stood up and took it, noticing her unsettlingly firm grip. “Good to meet you too, Ma... uh, Miss Gunn.”

“Please, I prefer that my business associates call me Faye,” she said, taking a seat. She crossed her legs, but did not rest her back against the chair. “Do you mind if I call you Dora?”

“Yeah, that’s okay.” Dora was off ease. Ma Gunn was classy, but not in the way she was expecting. Dora was expecting a bourgeois Gothamite, a woman of extravagance and privilege bought by illicit means—not what looked like a Catholic school teacher... not fucking Professor McGonagall. And Dora wasn’t expecting an Australian accent either. The woman was so severe looking, Dora couldn’t reconcile the delicate pretty name “Faye” with her. In her mind, she would continue to be “Ma.”

“Holly, be a dear and get my usual,” Ma waved her off, nonchalant.

 “Yes, Ma.” She bowed her head and snapped into action.

Dora watched Holly, amazed at the strict obedience she was displaying for this old woman. Left alone at the table with Ma, Dora suddenly felt very, very small.

A silence loomed over them. Dora racked her brain for a way to break the ice, while Ma watched her intently. Her throat was suddenly drier than Qurac. She took a sip of her latte, but burned her tongue.

Ma broke the silence. “I understand you’ve been considering my offer.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for turning you down the first time. I just needed more time to think about it.”

“You mean you needed to see how well your establishment could run without my help,” Ma said coolly. Her brazen confidence was unnerving, even if she was only half-right. Ma didn’t know that Batman had scared Dora straight—at least for a week.

“If you didn’t need _my_ help, you wouldn’t have offered a partnership, or waited this long for me to come around. You would have moved on.”

Ma arched an eyebrow. “Astute, my dear.” She adjusted her spectacles. “I could do without your business, but yes, I have incentive to partner with you.”

At that moment, Holly returned with Ma’s coffee order. She took a sip, swishing it around before swallowing. “Excellent, thank you. You are dismissed.”

Holly hesitated. “Ma, I was hoping I could stay...”

Ma finally looked at her. “Holly, I value you as my assistant. You’ve been helpful in previous negotiations, but Dora here is your friend. I can’t trust you to remain impartial, so you must leave. Go now. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Holly’s eyes flickered between Ma Gunn and Dora. After a moment, she finally left, taking a seat outside on the patio—within sight, but out of earshot. For Dora, it was so _odd_ seeing Holly so mousy and subservient.

“Let us get down to business, shall we, Dora?” Ma reached into her hand bag and pulled out a small notepad and pen.

Dora cringed. How could she have thought conducting a delicate business negotiation would not require note-taking? Her dad would be ashamed. She fumbled for her phone and opened the note-taking app. She wasn’t a much of a texter and was better at taking handwritten notes, but this would have to do.

“Tell me about your customers,” Ma began immediately. “What kind of money do they make?”

Dora took a few seconds to think. “They’re mostly the blue collar crowd. Dock, construction, utility, metro workers... cabbies, truckers... bodega owners, street vendors. People that live and work in Park Row, you know this street. They’re not an educated bunch, but they’re hard workers and mostly union, so they have some cash to blow for a good time every once in a while. Elsewise, they wouldn’t burn it all at my place.”

Ma looked at her, unaffected.

“Of course, after dark... we get people from the underworld. Dealers, fences, enforcers, sharks, bookies, triggers, smugglers, runners...”

That caught Ma’s interest. Her pen glided across the notepad. “Ever had any trouble keeping them in line?”

Dora looked away, flashes of the night Black Mask killed her father passing through her mind. Then came images of Red Hood killing Sergei and his men.

“They could get rowdy,” Dora said, “but no shots fired until Red Hood came around. When Kosov ran Park Row, there was a truce past the threshold. Under Black Mask, it didn’t matter since everyone worked for him anyway.”

“And I take it things have settled now. No more fights or shootings?”

“A bit too settled, let's be honest,” Dora admitted, scoffing. She didn’t have to hide it. Ma knew the Alibi was a ghost town.

“Any cops?”

Dora chewed her lip, recalling the cops her father had dealt with. “A few freelancers liked to stop by, yeah.” The term “freelancer” was a polite way of referring to a police officer that was not only dirt, corrupt, and easy to bribe, but would act as an enforcer or trigger man for the mob if paid enough.

Ma’s lips became a thin line and she jotted another thing down. It bothered Dora that Ma Gunn was leading this conversation, so she said, “Let me ask you this then. It only seems fair.” She took a boldening sip of her coffee. “What can you tell me about your girls?”

Ma set down her pen. “My girls? I have a girl for just about anybody, willing to do all sorts of things. I have boys too, and everything else in between.”

That wasn’t really what Dora wanted to hear. She had expected as much. “No, I mean... Where do they come from?”

The old woman’s face hardened. “Young lady, are you asking me if my people are trafficked?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking. Are they free to quit whenever they want? Are they old enough? Are they paid fairly? I won’t make a deal with you if I find out any of your people are sex slaves.”

Ma blinked several times without a readable expression.

Dora did not relent her gaze.

“You know what?” Ma finally smiled, showing her teeth. Perfect teeth—dentures. “I like you, deary.”

Relaxing, Dora sat back in her chair. Ma took off her glasses and wiped the lenses.

“My people are sex _workers_ , not sex slaves,” Ma said. “Some time ago, I was a sex worker myself—and not always in the best working conditions. I know what it’s like. Exploitative pimps, cruel madams, depraved johns—I’ve seen the bad. I’ve seen the ugly. But I’ve also seen the good, however seldom it was.” She stole a glance at Holly sitting outside, sipping her coffee and scrolling through her phone. Dora could almost see the nostalgia gleaming in her eyes. “I try to run my house as ethically as possible, still considering it’s illegal in most ways. I personally don’t believe it should. Sex work is work, but c’est la vie.”

She put her glasses back on and looked Dora directly in the eye. “That’s why Red Hood pulled me out of retirement. He knows my past. I’m not doing this for my own sake, sweetheart. I’m doing this to protect my people, because frankly, some of them aren’t good at anything else. Some of them don't _want_ to do anything else. They actually like sex work. They would go on meeting johns whether or not it’s safe, working for a sleeze like that piece of shit Stan because it’s all they know. At least in my house... they’re looked after and paid fairly, enough that they can quit whenever they want.”

There was a certain softness to Ma’s eyes now, something... maternal. Dora couldn’t help being reminded of Leslie. “Do you understand why I strive to protect my people and their rights? Even when society thinks they are scum?”

Dora’s heart slowed to a steady rhythm, one that she felt was resonant with Ma’s. “I do.” She understood better than most. In Gotham, the wealthy and privileged preyed on the poor and disadvantaged. She had to endure prejudice everyday because she was poor, Latina, and the child of an illegal immigrant. The whole reason why she tried to become a nurse was to help people who couldn’t help themselves.

After that statement, Dora knew she could trust Ma Gunn and it seemed like the feeling was mutual. Negotiations were serious and transactional, but amiable.

In the interest of keeping her workers safe, Ma wanted a bouncer in the Alibi at all times. Dora thought it was an excellent idea, but admitted she couldn’t afford one. Ma offered to assign one of her own to the Alibi. The question came up whether or not the bouncer would be armed. Dora didn’t mind if they were, as long as the gun was properly registered. Ma was reluctant, but eventually conceded.

That led to Dora establishing some ground rules. The bouncer had to keep Ma’s people in line as much as he did the customers. She didn’t want Ma Gunn’s girls bringing or doing drugs of any kind anywhere inside the Alibi, not even in the bathroom. No sex anywhere on the premises either. Ma countered, wanting the girls to drink free. Dora settled for a discount on well drinks and draft beer.

On the topic of discounts, Ma had heard from Holly about the Montgomery building’s vacant apartments. She had a number of people interested in renting them. At first, Dora sternly refused; she didn’t want the building turning into a brothel. Ma insisted that it wasn’t for dates, but that some of her people were homeless and needed a place to live. They couldn’t afford the exorbitant rates the gentrifying landlords of Gotham demanded, or pass the background and credit checks. A good deal of Ma’s working girls had children depending on them. A safe place to live was not just necessary for survival, but kept the unpleasant truth about the way their mothers earned money out of sight and mind.

That tugged on Dora’s heartstrings. Too many squatters could draw the attention of the Gotham Housing Authority, but... whatever. That government office was in the pocket of Gotham’s slumlords anyway. She was ashamed to admit it, but the money also influenced her opinion. Ma agreed to pay rent above board for a portion of the apartments, to launder the income.

The last aspect of the arrangement was deniability, meaning that neither would admit to anyone, cop or otherwise, that there was in fact a deal between them.

“I believe everything is in order now.” Ma set down her pen and clasped her hands. “Would you agree?”

Dora scrolled through her notes, double checking everything. “Yeah, everything’s square.”

“Then I think the next order of business is for you to visit my establishment. To seal the deal with a drink. It’s mafia tradition.”

Dora was marveled for a second. Was she part of a mafia now? “We could toast at my place,” Dora offered.

Ma folded up her notes and placed them in her wallet. “I’ve actually been to the Alibi. Numerous times. Don’t forget, I’ve lived in Park Row longer than you’ve been alive, my dear. I’m proud to say I knew your father, as well. As I’m sure he would be proud of you now. For the way you’re handling his affairs.”

Dora paused. Would her father actually be proud that she was making a deal with a madam to host prostitutes in his bar? He actually might be, considering all his dealings with organized criminals like Kosov and Black Mask never actually benefited the business or their family. Whereas this deal would.

“Thank you,” was all Dora could say.

“To my place then?”

It would be impolite to turn down the invitation while it was convenient for Ma. Thinking more about it, it was convenient for her as well, considering all the trouble she went through today to break a possible tail by Batman and the cops.

Dora donned her hoodie and beanie as she followed Ma out of the cafe. Outside on the patio, Holly stood to meet them—along with a burly bald man in a suit. He glared at Dora behind opaque sunglasses.

"Stand down, Ian. Dora is with us."

The man nodded and backed off.

“Don't worry about him, Dee. How’d it go?” Holly asked.

Ma stepped in and informed Holly as she led the way down the sidewalk, then gave her a long list of things to do. She tapped notes into her phone. Listening, Dora learned that Holly would have her hands all over the deal’s logistics and execution. It was evident now that Holly was in fact Ma’s personal assistant. Dora was impressed by how seriously she took her job. Maybe sex work was a legitimate profession after all...

Crescent Street was a few blocks away from Park Row, but still considered part of the Park Row neighborhood by most Gothamites. At first glance, it was not as derelict as Park Row proper, but it was certainly not high- or even middle-class. The buildings were old, but taken care of. Trash wasn’t piled on the curb, meaning the Sanitation Department was not afraid to go down this street. Graffiti was present, but only on public property. There was some artistic merit to the murals as opposed to the hastily done territorial tags Dora was used to on her home street.

As they walked, Dora began to notice some reverence for Ma among people of the neighborhood. Pedestrians nodded at her politely if they met eyes and moved out of her way without issue. Even cars with the right of way let them cross the street without so much as a honk or dirty look. It seemed to have nothing to do with Ma’s massive bodyguard, who gave them plenty of space by walking more than a dozen steps behind. Apparently, it was no secret Ma Gunn worked for Red Hood. Dora put on her sunglasses and pulled up her hoodie.

A few blocks later they stopped in front of an old ten story building.

“Here she is,” Holly said, beaming proudly. “Ma’s House.”

Dora looked up. It had an odd facade, with lots of exposed red bricks and molded concrete in a sort of neo-Gothic aesthetic. Deep grooves and arches framed the windows, thick concrete pillars held up the terraces and balconies. The roof actually had gargoyles.

“All this for a brothel?” Dora asked.

“The front is a hotel,” Ma said. “It's called the Vermilion.”

Dora scoffed. “Kind of on the nose, don't you think?”

“What do you mean?” Holly asked.

“The name.” Dora waved her hand dismissively.

The girl looked confused.

“Vermilion is a fancy word for red,” Dora explained to Holly, and looked at Ma Gunn. “Are you trying to advertise that Red Hood owns this place?”

Ma arched an eyebrow. “On the record, it's called the Vermilion because of the red bricks, my dear. It has been called so since before I took over management.”

The hotel was fancy... or at least it could be. Out front, the valets and doormen didn't look as such... they looked more like guards, with intimidating postures and nasty expressions. The uniform red jackets didn't do much to make them more welcoming, neck tattoos peaked out from their collars.

The red canopy over the entrance was weathered, faded, and covered in bird waste. Inside, the lobby was sparse with threadbare carpeting, furniture, and decor that went out of fashion decades ago. There were no porters ready to help with bags, and the few guests coming and going avoided their eyes.

The front desk was attended by a sleek man with long brown hair that blended into a purple ombre. The clunky Gothic boots he propped up on the desk starkly contrasted the uniform he was wearing, a red jacket and necktie, similar to the doormen’s. Overall, he gave off a distinctly vampiric impression. He was painting his fingernails black while humming along to industrial music hissing from his phone.

Ma Gunn glared at him disapprovingly.

“Sorry, no vacancies,” he said, not looking up.

“Beau!” Holly said through clenched teeth.

The man finally looked up, saw Ma Gunn, and blanched. “Oh shit!” He fumbled with the nail polish and his phone, managing to drop them both. He cursed again, then stood and tried to smooth down his jacket and adjust his tie, only to stain them with the wet nail polish. He cursed yet _again_.

Holly palmed her face while Dora chuckled.

“G-good evening, Ma,” Beau stammered, nervously tucking his strikingly well-groomed hair behind his ears. He cringed when he got nail polish there too.

“Beau, this is my business associate Dora Silva. She is to be provided with full guest privileges and comped services. Do you understand?”

Beau appraised Dora, unabashed. He sent Holly a quick look, arching an eyebrow. He was clearly asking “ _Is this her?_ ” Holly smirked back.

Dora frowned, thinking, _Chismosa_. Gossip girl.

“Yes, Ma. I'll let the staff know. Pleased to meet you, Miss Silva,” Beau said, initially offering his hand, but withdrew it after realizing his nails weren’t dry. “If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Beau,” Dora said. “But wait... does that mean...”

Ma nodded. “You’re welcome to stay here whenever you want, so long as we have rooms available.”

Holly leaned into Dora. “And we shouldn’t be full up anymore now that you’re letting some girls stay in your building,” she whispered.

“If you would follow me, the lounge is this way,” Ma said. “Holly, if you could help Beau clean up, I'd appreciate it.” She didn't wait for an answer and was already leading Dora away.

Holly waved bye to Dora, but then growled at Beau and punched his shoulder.

Ma and Dora left the main lobby through an open hallway opposite the elevators. The walls were decorated with very provocative paintings, some classical, most modern, all obviously prints. The subjects were often naked and in very erotic poses, and some were not-so-subtly in the middle of the act.

Dora was particularly captivated by a painting that appeared to be a modern take on Persephone and Hades. She stopped walking to have a closer look. Below a pale moon, a beautiful woman was swooning in the arms of an attractive male vampire or demon. A plate below the painting read: “ _Dance with the Devil_ by Martha Kane.”

Ma Gunn caught Dora looking and said, “Sets the mood. Come, the lounge is around the corner.”

They finally arrived at the lounge, its entrance guarded by a bouncer that looked more threatening than the bodyguard that had been following Ma and Dora around. He stood aside obediently as Ma Gunn passed, but not without a disdainful frown at Dora.

Dora knew it was their job to look like assholes, so she ignored him and took in the Vermilion lounge with a critical eye. She couldn’t help but compare it to the Alibi.

The Vermillion lounge could be summed up in one word: “sophisticated.”

Whereas the rest of the Vermilion hotel only approached the word the least sense, the lounge itself was the epitome of it. Clearly, the money they didn't spend on the hotel’s facade or the lobby’s decor had been spent here. It had the air of an aristocratic parlour, study, den, or cigar lounge. The liquor and glasses were stored on what looked like book shelves behind a stout mahogany counter with gold rails. The furniture was thick and heavy, made of dark carved wood and impeccably upholstered. The lighting was dim, lit only by soft lamps on the walls and candles on the tables. A lit and crackling fireplace was flanked by antique-looking chairs and sofas.

Dora was impressed but it wasn't fair to compare the Alibi to the Vermilion. She didn't feel at home here, and neither would her type of customers—her kind of people. Even if she had a million dollars, she would never build a bar like this.

The male customers all dressed like they belonged on Wall Street, or in the country clubs by the Wayne Estate. The women—which no-one could blame Dora for assuming were prostitutes—weren't the class Dora was used to seeing. Ma's girls here wore expensive, sleek dresses and designer shoes; the kind that drew the eye not because of a bold pattern, bright color, or provocative cut, but because of the way they both accentuated and teased the women's bodies. They were elegant and sexy as opposed to hot and slutty. Dora felt very underdressed just standing there in her hoodie, jeans, and boots.

“What do you think?” Ma asked.

“It's nice,” Dora said, shrugging, “but not my scene.”

Ma made a nonchalant “that's fine” expression.

“Are these the type of women that are going to start coming to my bar?” Dora asked, walking over to the counter.

“Yes and no,” Ma explained. “Same actors... different characters, if you understand.”

“She means they won't be so... Kardashian... when they go to your place,” said the woman behind the counter.

“Dora, this is Jessie, the manager of the hotel’s lounge,” Ma said.

Jessie was a statuesque pale-skinned brunette with a long braid that fell past her waist. She wore a pin-striped double-breasted vest that _almost_ made her blend in with the bar's up-scale patrons, except that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The vest exposed several intricate tattoos on her arms and chest. Dora noticed flowers, a bird, a wolf, and a sailboat, among other things.

Jessie held out her hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Dora. Holly's told me a lot about you.”

Dora rolled her eyes. “Told you things like what?”

“That you’re a badass bar owner that serves Molotov cocktails to any asshole that stirs up shit. I respect that.”

Ma Gunn gave Dora an amazed look.

Dora blushed, rubbing the still tender skin on her right hand where the stunt had burned her. “Oh, yeah. I forgot she was there for that.”

“If you ever want to exchange tips or talk shop, there’s always a cup here waiting for you.”

Dora had a thought. “Actually.” She looked around and took in the Vermilion lounge one more time. “I’ve got a shit load of high-shelf liquor burning a hole in my storeroom. Like six stacked palettes, never opened. It’s too expensive for my customers’ tastes, but...”

Jessie smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “... but not for mine. Selling alcohol under the table like that is illegal you know.”

Dora hesitated, then said, “If stuff like that bothered me, do you think I’d be here?” She was a little surprised with herself.

Jessie looked at Ma, who nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll come around some time to take a look. What are you having?”

“Whiskey sour,” Dora answered.

“Cabernet Sauvignon,” said Ma.

After a smirk, Jessie whirled into action, deftly preparing the drinks in less than a minute, garnish included. To Dora, it was clear Jessie was a skilled mixologist, probably even licensed. “Let me know if you need anything else,” Jessie said, giving Dora a wink. She left them to take care of her other patrons.

Ma and Dora picked up their cups. “It was good doing business with you, Dora. I look forward to a long and successful partnership.”

“Thanks...” Dora said, looking at her drink. She didn’t know what to say. “Here’s, um... to the GCPD being none the wiser.”

Ma chuckled softly, shaking her head. “If I may... I recall a funny little toast Monty used to say. How’d it go... ‘To Hell...’”

Dora brightened up. “To Hell. May the stay there be as fun as the way there.”

“That’s it. Salud.”

“Salud.” They tapped cups and drank. Dora paused to fully taste her drink, then smiled. This Jessie woman was a damn good bartender. You don’t legally _need_ a license to bartend in Gotham, but Dora now thought it might be a good investment. She made a mental note to run it by Rochelle the next time they talked.

“It’s funny,” Ma said, quietly smacking her lips. “ _He_ orders that exact same drink whenever he’s here.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

Ma put down her cup and met Dora’s eyes. “Red Hood.”

A pang hit her in the chest, a bitter reminder. “Oh. Um, how often is he here?” Dora looked around, noticing more than ever the _many_ beautiful women that were _way_ out of her league. Red Hood owned this place, this _brothel_. He had his pick of any woman in this room. Holly had once assured her that Red Hood never touched any of his prostitutes, but she still couldn’t help but feel jealous or paranoid.

“He doesn’t come by often,” Ma said, “but we always conduct business here, at this bar, and he always orders that drink.”

Dora took another sip of it, recalling their whiskey-flavored first kiss. A shiver spread across her shoulders. The taste of whiskey never made her feel this way before that night.

Ma Gunn was looking at her, cold blue eyes unwavering. Reading her like a book. “I know about you two.”

Dora stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“That night you spent together. Or rather... _didn’t_ spend together.”

“Dammit, Holly,” Dora cursed under her breath.

“No, Holly didn’t tell me. _He_ did.”

Dora frowned. “Wait... why would he tell you about us?”

Ma finished the rest of her wine and took a long breath. “Red Hood and I are close. We always have been. I would not have come out of retirement for anyone else but him.”

“He means that much to you?”

“Yes, my dear, he does. I know who he is behind the stupid red bucket and that funny little mask. He used to work for me when he was a boy. I... raised him, for a time. In a lot of ways, he’s like a son to me.”

Dora’s breath caught. Suddenly there was more gravity in the room. This entire afternoon she had been talking to the woman that was basically Red Hood’s mother?

Ma reached out and grabbed Dora’s hand. “He cares about you, Dora, you know?” She caressed her knuckles. “A lot. He regrets that he hasn’t been able to spend more time with you. Regrets that he hasn’t told you more about himself.”

A warmth spread in Dora’s chest. What was that feeling? She liked it. “He... cares about me?”

“Yes, he does,” Ma said softly, smiling. “I’m happy he's found someone to care about in this bleak city. But he cares about you in that special way that makes men blind. And stupid.”

Ma’s grip on Dora’s hand suddenly tightened. Painfully. Dora gasped. She tried to pull her hand away, but Ma wouldn’t let her.

Ma leaned in, grip tightening, menace in her eyes, and threat in her voice. “You have to think carefully about your relationship with him, Dora. Do not lead him on or give him mixed signals. You must decide whether or not to be with him. No half-measures.”

Dora’s throat was leathery and dry. It was all too much, and she didn’t have time to think. She just agreed, “No half-measures.”

“Know this. If you hurt him...” Ma whispered. “I will kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. This was a longer chapter mostly because I couldn't find a good way to break it up. There is a pretty frank discussion about sex work in this chapter. You don't have to agree with any of it. I'm just writing from the point of view of someone who does advocate for it. My foster sister was a sex worker for a while and had some pretty good arguments in favor of it. She inspired Holly a little bit. A huge theme in this story is gray morality, and just because something is illegal doesn't necessarily mean its wrong. Dora's diving deeper into that rabbit hole, getting more involved in crime. As some would say, she's breaking bad.
> 
> Then there's the character of Ma Gunn. To me, she's monumental, so she needed the space and time to really shine, especially since I've been mentioning her since Chapter 5, like Batman. Red Hood fans might know that Ma Gunn was Jason Todd's foster mother for a time. Some even know that in part of the Rebirth series, she kinda serves the same role for Jason as Alfred does for Bruce. That's why she appears in my story. But furthermore, hardcore Red Hood fans know that she's secretly Jason's biological grandmother and loves him more than she shows. Nobody knows, not even Jason himself, that Ma Gunn is his grandmother except Jason's father [who everybody thinks is dead, but isn't]. I wanted to take that character connection from the comics and really make it my own. That's why her interaction with Dora has so much subtext and tension. Every parent can't help but grill their child's potential partner.
> 
> Hopefully you caught a few Easter eggs I placed in this chapter. It's a bit on the nose, but the myth of Persephone and Hades kinda mirrors a theme in this whole story, of an innocent girl seduced by the literal king of the underworld.
> 
> You might have caught the painting is titled "Dance with the Devil," which refers to a quote by the Joker in the first Batman movie. "Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moon light?" To me, it's a euphemism for tempting fate or playing with fire, which Dora is doing every second she chooses to involve herself with Red Hood and the criminal underworld.
> 
> Next, the artist of the painting is Martha Kane, a.k.a. Martha Wayne, a.k.a. Bruce Wayne's mother. Kane was her maiden name. The various Batman media never really mention what Martha's profession was. All we know was that Bruce's father was a doctor, and that Martha was a wealthy philanthropist and socialite before and after marrying him. For my sake, I like to imagine that she was an artist, if not professionally, then at least as a hobby. She seems like the type, considering all the artsy charities and foundations Bruce makes in her name across all the Batman media.
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to give a shout out to my writing friends MidnightDaybreak and Akrasiel, who cameoed as characters in this chapter! Beau and Jessie, respectively. Thanks for being good sports and letting me caricaturize you.


	18. Sway of the Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dora reaps the rewards of her deal with Ma Gunn, and enjoys an unexpected bonus.

** Chapter 18: Sway of the Break **

“Holy shit.” Rochelle gawked at Dora. “Ma Gunn is Red Hood’s mother?”

“I dunno,” Dora said, running a hand through her hair anxiously. “She said he was _like_ a son to her. She raised him for a while, and he worked for her when he was a kid.”

It was later that night, after Dora’s meeting with Ma Gunn. The girls sat in a booth inside the Alibi, cradling beers. The neon sign on the window blinked the word “open,” but the barroom was empty save for them. To save on power, Dora had dimmed the lights, turned off the TVs, and even the AC. If a customer happened to walk in, she would turn it all back on, but right now there was no point. It was all she could do to keep the bar afloat in the current circumstances. She hoped that would change soon, but she had other things on her mind.

“Fuck.” Rochelle took a long draw from her bottle. “Sounds like she was his foster mom or something. I heard some people game the system that way. Y’know. Free child labor and the government gives you a monthly check for the kid.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” Back during her teens, Dora had friends in similar situations. It was common in Gotham. Lots of kids without parents. Lots of people that needed money.

Rochelle tilted her head and tapped the lip of her beer bottle against her chin. “Do you... You don’t think Ma Gunn made Red Hood turn tricks for her? When he was a kid, I mean.”

Dora frowned, disgusted at the thought, but she did let it linger. After a while, she said, “No way,” and she was certain. “Ma Gunn went on and on about sex workers’ rights and ethics and stuff. She’s totally against that type of exploitation. I mean, look at Holly. Ma’s not above putting underage people to work, just not _sex_ work.”

Rochelle nodded, conceding. “It’s just... weird. Your hunky badass BF has a momma that’s just as badass. When was the last time your mom supported you doing something illegal? You’d think Ma would be worried about him. It’s almost funny to think about. ”

Dora took a swig of her beer. She didn’t think it was funny. A cold feeling slithered down her back. “The way she talked about Red Hood, the last thing she’d want is someone taking advantage of him.”

Rochelle narrowed her eyes. “Wait a sec. What’d she say exactly?”

Dora picked at her bottle’s label with her thumb. “She knows about us. About me and Red Hood. About the stuff we did—I mean _almost_ did. She knows... she said he _cares_ about me.” Dora her chest and face warm up. Her eyes tingled.

“Whoa,” Rochelle said, reaching over and grabbing Dora’s hand. “That’s fucking huge, Dee. What’s that mean for you two? Do you want to get serious?”

“I... I don’t know.” Dora gulped down the rest of her drink. “Ma said if I hurt him... she’ll _kill_ me.”

Rochelle laughed.

Dora didn’t.

“Oh,” Rochelle said. Silence loomed over them. Rochelle watched Dora pick flakes of her bottle’s label off her fingernails.

“She’s bluffing, Dee,” Rochelle finally added. She attempted to sound reassuring, although her tone did not come across as wholly confident.

Shrugging, Dora said, “Ma already lives outside the law, has her whole life. She raised a man that kills people for a living and that doesn’t make her bat an eye. Heck, I think she might even approve of it. I think murdering her son’s girlfriend is not so far out of the question.”

Dora’s chest went cold for a second and a weird taste appeared on her tongue. She licked her lips. Did she just refer to herself as Red Hood’s _girlfriend_? Out loud?

 _Hypothetical_ , she told herself, shaking off the feeling.

“She’s just an old lady. You could take her.” Rochelle insisted.

Dora considered it. “Not the 250-pound enforcers that answer to her.” She had no idea what a hitman looked like, but she imagined they didn’t look much different than Ma’s burly thugs.

Without really having to think about it, Dora just shrugged the weight of Ma’s words off, despite the very real stakes. It was just another drop in the bucket.

In the past few months, Dora had literally stared down the barrel of a gun more than she ever thought she would. She was being threatened from all sides, and she was beginning to lose track. And frankly, she it was almost becoming hard to care.

First Black Mask’s men, next the cops, then Red Hood’s rivals, then the creditors, then the fucking Batman, and now, of all people, Red Hood’s god damn mother. At some point, sooner or later, something would catch up and her life would be ruined. Dora felt the only option was to chug along for as long as she could, hopefully dropping some baggage along the way.

Rochelle gulped, the gravity of the threat seeming to settle on her more heavily than on Dora. She wasn't used to it.

“But hey,” Dora said, “she may never get the chance. Considering I haven’t seen Red Hood in weeks, and I have no way to contact him, there’s no way for me to ‘hurt’ him.”

“You didn’t ask Ma for his number or anything?”

“No.” In fact, Dora had been so shook by Ma’s threat that she forgot.

It was all for the better anyway. Being close to him was bad for her health. Especially after that death threat...

Something fluttered below her stomach and made her cross her legs. For fuck’s sake, the death threat actually made Red Hood more attractive. What was wrong with her?

# 悪

While the specters of numerous threats loomed above her like vultures, Dora had other things occupying her attention, some not so morbid.

The very next evening, without invitation or special advertising, the Alibi hosted almost a dozen attractive women, all extremely amiable and inexplicably clad in scant tight clothes. There was also a small cadre of very well groomed and charismatic men that seemed to have no interest in them.

Word quickly spread down the block that a variety of flirty and loose singles were haunting the Alibi, and the lusty blue collar denizens of the Park Row came flooding in.

The deal with Ma Gunn was bearing fruit, very quickly. In less than a week, Dora and Rochelle were overwhelmed. They had to call in the reserves to keep up with the demand for service: Rochelle’s boyfriend Ben to bus and Dora’s mother Anita to bartend.

Jessie, Ma’s bartender, appeared with the working girls to buy the high-end liquor sitting in the Alibi’s cellar. But after that transaction was done, (she gave Dora more than a fair price for it all), she began “hanging out” every other night or so. Apparently, to Jessie, hanging out meant sneaking behind the bar and filling orders when Dora and Rochelle couldn’t.

When they caught her, she claimed she liked dives like the Alibi more than the posh lounge Ma Gunn hired her to run. In their off-time, she began to teach Dora and Rochelle next-level drink mixing. All that extra help came free-of-charge and Dora even noticed that Jessie and Rochelle were getting along surprisingly well. To her own amusement, Dora started to feel jealous.

As promised, Ma Gunn did eventually provide a bouncer. Jessie introduced them one evening.

“Ma extends her apologies,” Jessie said, holding the door open. “She had trouble finding someone that wanted to take this gig.”

“Really?” Dora asked, offended. “Why did no one want it?”

“Your no gun rule, to be honest,” Jessie said.

“I didn’t say no guns. I said they had to be licensed and registered. I don’t want trouble with the cops. There’s enough shady shit going on here already.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t need one,” someone said from outside the door. The sound of the bouncer’s voice was peculiar to Dora. It took her a second too long to realize why.

Dora was expecting a man, but instead a woman walked into the bar. She was almost as tall as Jessie. Even in a pantsuit, it was clear she wasn’t just fit, but athletic. She had sturdy looking arms and legs that evidenced a regular workout regime. Her dark skin, amber eyes, and long brown hair of varying shades were accentuated by a pretty face with keen features.

She wasn’t that intimidating at all. Instead, she was positively cute and adorable. In fact, Dora thought the sleazy customers were more likely to flirt with this so-called bouncer than the actual prostitutes—her understated beauty was more approachable.

“Nice to meet you, Dora. I’m Lilith.” She held out a hand to shake Dora’s, who found her grip impressive, but still not reassuring.

Dora smiled, trying to appear gracious. “Nice to meet you too. Let me show you around.” As she led Lilith around, explaining her expectations, Dora was embarrassed to admit she was a little disappointed with Lilith. She decided not to complain, afraid of appearing not feminist. She could let Lilith stick around, and ask Ma to replace her at the first sign she couldn’t cut it.

Apparently, Lilith was able to read all that on Dora’s face. At the conclusion of the tour, Lilith said, “I know I’m not what you expected, but no worries. I’ve got your back.”

Dora smiled apologetically. “Um, thanks.” She looked at Lilith’s waist. Despite being annoyingly slim, it was absent of a holster of any kind. Dora was beginning to regret her strict gun rules.

“So when’s last call?” Lilith asked brightly, putting on glasses with cat-eye frames to inspect someone’s ID.

 _Yeah_ , Dora thought. _Way too cute to be a bouncer._

That very night, Lilith proved her worth. Nobody challenged her when she cut them off, or asked them to leave. Maybe it was just hard to say no to a pretty face like hers.

Except for one man.

Dora was bussing a vacated booth when she heard someone slur, “Would you two fags knock that shit off! Nobody wants to see that!”

Dora stopped what she was doing, anger rising, and scanned the bar for the offender.

It was almost too easy. The bigot was lounging in a booth, one of Ma’s girls under his arm, a beer in the other. Several empty mugs were scattered across his table. He wore a green and purple “Luthor for President” trucker hat. He was thick and burly, filling out the stevedore’s uniform he wore. Dora knew the type. He got paid to do a hard job many couldn’t handle, so he thought he was entitled to something.

The man glared at a couple sitting in the booth across from his. Dora recognized them. One was a regular patron named Harry, with his arm draped across the shoulders of Thomas, one of Ma’s boys.

“Knock it off, you homos, get the fuck out of here!” the bigot yelled.

Before Dora could step in and do anything, Lilith appeared next to the booth. “Sir,” she said in a cool, even tone. “Please lower your voice, or I will have to ask you to leave.”

The bigot leered at her. “Hey, I have a right to free speech, and I can tell those homos to quit necking all I want. No one wants to see that shit.”

Thomas snarled. “How’s what we’re doing different than what you’re doing?”

The bigot smiled and slapped the girl’s breast he was with. “What I’m doing ain’t fucking queer!”

The woman he was with instantly scowled with disgust, shrugged off his arm, and scooted out of the booth. “Asshole,” she spat.

The man didn’t seem fazed. “Fine, I don’t need you! Plenty of other whores around here.”

Lilith removed her glasses and glared at the man, her amber eyes smoldering. “Sir, please leave.”

Dora herself quailed. Lilith could change from friendly and welcoming, to hostile and intimidating at the flip of a coin. It was all in the way she set her eyebrows and lips.

However, the look had no effect on the man. He was apparently too drunk to notice Lilith’s death glare. “I’d like to see you make me.” The bigot stood up, taking a sip of his beer. He towered over her by a least a foot. He easily had over a hundred pounds on her.

Lilith did not even bat an eye as she looked up at him. She followed protocol. “Sir, this is your last warning. Please leave the premises, or—”

“Or what, _coon_?” He stepped toward Lilith, closing the space between them. He held up his mug, and started turning it over, to pour beer on Lilith’s head.

But he never got the chance.

One second the man was leering at Lilith, smiling with contempt—the next he was grunting, grimacing with pain. The cup fell to the floor with a clunk. It had happened so fast, Dora had to replay it in her mind to realize what happened.

In a blur of precise motion, Lilith had grabbed the bigot’s hand, side-stepped, and twisted his arm behind his back—crunches and cracks emitting along the way. She had a vise grip on his wrist and fingers.

Dora was good with anatomy; she could immediately see that Lilith had partially dislocated the bigot’s shoulder and was about to break two of his fingers.

The whole bar froze in awe. Silence fell.

“Move!” Lilith shouted.

“Fuck you, lady!” He tried to shrug her off, but she applied the pressure on his arm—another sickening crunch—and he howled in pain. Lilith led/shoved him toward the exit. The man’s face smashed into the door as she pushed him through it. Once past the threshold, she hooked her foot on his ankle and heaved, sending him sprawling across the sidewalk and into the gutter. It had been raining that day, so he was soaked in mud immediately. “You’re banned from the Alibi,” Lilith announced.

The man stumbled to his feet, growling and grunting, looking ready for a fight. “You little...” He lumbered over to the entrance.

Compared to Lilith, he was absolutely sluggish.

When he was within reach, he threw a punch at Lilith with his good arm, but she parried, grabbed it and pulled, carrying the momentum over her shoulder. The bigot slammed into the wall and tumbled to the ground again. In no time at all, Lilith had his leg between hers, his foot in her hands, twisted at an odd angle. To top it off, the heel of her boot was digging into his groin.

“If I ever see you around here again, I won’t be so gentle,” Lilith growled.

The man let out a high-pitched wheeze, sounding like a deflating balloon.

“Good night.” Lilith released her hold and let the man crawl away.

Walking back inside the bar, Lilith retucked her blouse and smoothed the wrinkles out of her suit. She was fixing her hair when she noticed the entire bar was silent. She put on her glasses and looked around. Dora and Rochelle gawked at her. And so did everybody else.

Lilith smirked, her eyes glittering. “Does anyone else have a problem?”

After a heavy pause, the bar erupted in noise, everyone went back to their own business.

Dora walked up to Lilith. Their eyes lingered on each other's. An apology was passed, and forgiveness sent back. "Thanks," Dora said.

"No problem," Lilith replied.

Not able to contain herself, Rochelle immediately bombarded Lilith with questions. Dora just listened.

Lilith didn’t work for Ma Gunn full-time. In fact, her day job was as a self-defense instructor, teaching Brazilian jiu-jitsu and Krav Maga mostly to women and young girls. Sometime ago, Ma had hired Lilith to teach her girls self-defense, and when no one would take the gig for the Alibi, Ma hired her for that too.

After last call, Rochelle insisted Lilith teach them the moves she used on the bigot. Lilith happily obliged, carrying on the lesson the next night after hours.

“This would’ve come in handy that night Sergei and his assholes attacked us, huh?” Rochelle remarked.

Dora couldn’t help but agree. "What time are your classes?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another down beat chapter, I hope you don’t mind. I needed to unpack the revelations from the last chapter, and loosen the tension before I start ramping it up again. Trust me, if you read the story all in one go, this little roller coaster I’m trying to make flows better than being fed tiny little morsels every month or so. And hey, I’m really excited for what’s coming around the corner. The next peak in tension is quite the doozie, if I do say so myself.
> 
> I’d also like to highlight Lilith here, a cameo of my friend Lily-Lucid. Imagine Rochelle, Beau, Jessie, and Lilith are characters in a TV show, and Rhelna, MidnightDaybreak, Akrasiel, and Lily-Lucid are their actors. That might not do you much good, since you probably don’t know what they look like IRL, but I do, and they support this story, so that’s my way of thanking them.
> 
> The title of the chapter is in reference to the song “Sway of the Break” by After the Burial. Quite a few chapters are titled after After the Burial’s songs actually, because they really inspire the story for me. Chapter 7: Into the Gray and Chapter 8: Collapse are some of the other chapters referencing their songs. And more are coming!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	19. Heavy Lies the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The windfall from Ma Gunn's help was too good to be true. Dora faces judgment from her mother, while suffering from a loss she doesn't expect.

** Chapter 19: Heavy Lies the Ground **

 

“Dios mio,” Anita cursed. _Oh my god._ She pulled off her glasses and pushed the laptop away.

“Que pasa, Mami?” Dora asked over her shoulder, looking up from the stacks of dollar bills she was sorting and counting. _What’s up?_ She and her mother were back to back in separate booths. Dora had been accounting the cash exchanges while her mother tackled the card transactions.

Anita turned around and steeled her eyes on Dora. “Dora, que paso? Ques hicieras?” _Dora, what happened? What did you do?_

She knew what her mother meant immediately. She had been counting herself, and her sums had come up... well, for lack of a better term... _huge._

Revenue was through the roof—much, _much_ higher than she was used to seeing. It wasn’t until a year ago that Dora started dipping her hands into the Alibi’s books, but she knew this heavy stream of income was unusual. The only time she had ever seen such large gains was when...

Anita left her booth and slid into Dora’s. “No soy tonta. Ques hicieras?” _I’m not stupid. What did you do?_

Dora’s mind scrambled for an answer. She couldn’t find one. She hesitated.

In that time, her mother pushed. “I’m not stupid, Dora. Your father pulled this shit all the time. What deal did you make? _Who_ did you make it with?”

Her mom was too privy to this kind of thing. Dora had no choice but to admit it. “Ma Gunn.”

Anita’s eyes flickered, searching for something. Thinking. The answer dawned on her. “Todas las putas." _All those flirty bitches._ Anita probably had no idea who Ma Gunn was, but a sudden influx of hot slutty girls, consistently hitting below their weight, was hard to hide, and they had to answer to someone.

“Yeah.”

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing,” Dora said at first, then in response to her mother’s sceptical look, she explained the details, leaving out that Ma Gunn worked for Red Hood.

“Does this have anything to with Holly, Carla’s new bestie?”

“No,” Dora lied. Her mom had probably recognized Holly from her time turning tricks under Kosov’s regime. Since Red Hood took over, Holly didn’t come around the bar during open hours anymore, so Dora hoped that was enough to put her off the scent.

Anita just sat there, staring at Dora. Her jaw was clenched. She was studying, reading her daughter.

The scrutiny made Dora uncomfortable. “Mami, what’s wrong?”

“No sabes... I don’t know whether to be proud or scared to death.”

Even after taking a moment to digest those words, Dora didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

Anita wiped a tear from her cheek. “You’re just like your father.”

Dora said nothing, and let her mother continue.

“God damn you, Dora, I know you love the family, but you love this fucking bar just as much, and you think it’s the only way to provide for us. You can’t fucking separate the two.”

Dora bit her lip, anxious.

“It’s a blessing and a curse, I swear it is,” her mother continued. “That’s what you two were blind to. This bar is like a ship at sea. You can’t predict what happens. Sometimes the wind blows well, and we’re good. Sometimes it doesn’t, and it hurts us.

“That fucking pride, thinking you can defy reality, fate, luck, o otro mierda. Doing everything in your power to do so. Making deals with criminals, Dora? Those are the same mistakes your father made. Dealing with the Devil. Selling his soul. It’s what got him killed. Look who he fucked with! Sooner or later, the Devil’s going to collect. Adelita, I don’t want to lose you the same way I lost him.” Tears gleamed in her eyes, but they did not fall.

Dora had no idea what to say. _Adelita._ Her mother never invoked her middle name like that unless she was being very sincere. A long silence passed between the two.

Finally, Dora managed, “It’ll all work out, mami. I promise.” _I hope._

Dora understood her mom’s worry, but she didn’t quite understand her grief.

Her mother and father... their relationship had always been tenuous. Decades ago, Ana “Anita” Silva and Philip “Monty” Montogomery met in the Alibi. Anita had stayed after last call one night, and one thing led to another.

Dora’s parents were off and on for years. Dora’s father told her that he was head over heels for Anita, but _she_ was the one that kept dumping him. Anita was the fun, attractive, outgoing girl, while Monty was the reserved, average-looking, loner type of guy. He was the shoulder to cry on, the rebound, the friend with benefits, but never the boyfriend. The bartender, but not the guy she went home with.

Anita gave birth Dora out of wedlock, while she and her father were “off.” That’s why Dora’s last name was Silva, not Montgomery.

Monty stepped up not just because it was his duty, but because he truly loved Anita and Dora. It took Anita _years_ to see his commitment. Dora’s parents were married when she was five years old.

As a naive little girl, Dora liked to believe there was finally true love between her parents, but they didn’t have Carla until five years into their marriage, when Dora was ten years old. The sisters grew up with their parent’s temperaments towards each other shifting from hot to cold and back again as often the seasons.

Mercy wasn’t born until Dora was sixteen, and after that her parents’ marriage went frigid for good. Her dad developed a drinking problem, and they divorced when Dora was nineteen. Carla was nine, Mercy was three.

Monty and Anita were broken up and divorced for five years before he died. But... to Dora’s knowledge, neither dated or moved on since the separation. The split was rough at first but they eventually got along well enough. Her parents were friends, business partners.

There might have been something more lingering between them than Dora never realized. Why else would her mother be so grief-stricken over her father?

“Ay, ay, ay...” Anita shook her head in concern. She stood up and gave Dora a kiss on the forehead. “I’m heading home. Are you staying here again?”

“Yeah,” Dora said.

“You should come back home every once in a while,” Anita said, looking forlorn. “Your sisters, they miss you.” She cupped Dora’s cheek. “Especially Mercy. She asks about you all the time. Come see her. Read her a bedtime story, sing her a lullaby, take her to school, brush her hair, _something_. She misses you.”

“I’m sorry...” Dora couldn’t meet her eyes. She missed her baby sister too. “I just got a lot of work to do, mami.”

“Alright,” Anita sighed. “Can you take the cash to the bank tomorrow?”

“No problem.”

After her mother left, Dora zipped up all the cash and receipts into leather pouches, locked them in the safe in the office, and descended the stairs to the cellar. It had become much roomier since Jessie took all the crates and palettes of expensive liquor, and now it looked more like a proper flat than a stockroom.

Dora had pretty much moved in, and couldn’t remember the last time she actually went home to the apartment she shared with her mom and sisters. She felt it was a waste of time to walk or even drive the seven blocks between their apartment and the Alibi when she spent all her time here anyway. Plus she liked the privacy. A while ago, her mother had offered her a vacant apartment upstairs, Dora didn’t feel it was a realistic option because they needed rent money. With the new deal with Ma, that wasn’t much of an issue anymore, but ironically, Holly was living in that “vacant” apartment now.

Dora kicked off her shoes, wriggled out of her clothes, and collapsed on the mattress in the corner. She curled up in the covers and let out a breath, reveling in sweet relaxation.

There was another reason she loved it down here. She wouldn't admit it to anyone. The last time _he_ was here, they had almost... Down here, it was easier to remember that night, the way his lips and hands and body felt on hers. It was easy to imagine things going further than they had...

There was a simultaneously pleasant and annoying tingle just north of her knees and south of her belly button.

She had to scratch that itch before going to bed, wishing he would do it for her.

# 悪

Dora woke up the next afternoon, and proceeded straight into her morning workout, which was climbing up the six flights of stairs to Holly’s apartment. She let herself in.

Holly was home, splayed out on her bed, half-clothed. She mumbled/slurred a good morning to Dora before rolling over and pulling up the covers to block out the late morning sun. Dora took a moment to pull the window’s blinds closed before heading for bathroom. Holly mumbled gratefully, “Love ya, Dee,” and fell back asleep.

By the time Dora had freshened up and come back downstairs, it was close to noon: opening time. Rochelle and Lilith were sharing coffees and lunch, chatting about something or other.

“Join us for lunch?” Lilith offered.

“Sorry, no time. I gotta hit the bank,” Dora said, just grabbing a coffee cup and walking into the office. She walked back out a minute later with a backpack, stuffing the leather pouches of cash inside.

“How come you don’t have a security service take that?” Lilith asked.

Rochelle and Dora scoffed. “And have it stolen?” Dora said. “Armored trucks get hijacked all the time in Gotham.”

“Good point, but you’re going to take a backpack full of cash on the subway?” Lilith eyed the bag. “People get mugged for less. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Precisely why I’m taking my car. It wouldn’t hurt if you tag along, though. I'd like the company.”

Lilith stood, taking a last sip of her coffee. “Let’s go.”

“Alright, see you, Rocky!”

Rochelle waved them off as they walked onto the sidewalk. Dora was already beginning to dread the mid-afternoon traffic, but at least she had someone to talk to now. She looked up and down the street for her car, a rusty old Impala.

“Where did you park?” Lilith asked.

“I could have sworn it was right here, in front of the Alibi...” Dora said, looking around. She always parked it either on this side of the street or the other. There was always a spot available within eyeshot. “Maybe my mom took it?”

Their apartment was seven blocks away, but Anita usually walked. Maybe she was especially tired last night? But if she knew Dora needed to go to the bank the next day, why would she take the car?

Dora texted her and asked. The reply came back, _“It was parked out front when I left last night.”_

Her mind whirled. Maybe Carla took it for a joyride. She used to do that all the time, until Dora and her mom started to keep a close eye on their keys, and locked up the spares. She texted, _“Does Carla have your key?”_

Her mother replied no, and asked if everything was okay.

A sick feeling boiled in Dora’s chest, but she told her mother not to worry about it.

“Is everything okay?” Lilith asked.

Dora ignored her and walked down the sidewalk, mumbling, “Shit, shit, shit,” under her breath. She made a lap around the block and into the back alley to make sure she or her mother hadn’t parked it around the corner and forgotten about it, but still couldn’t find the car.

“Dora, did you lose your car?” Lilith asked.

Dora liked her now, but that question nagged her for some reason. “I don’t know, I need to make a call.” On the way back the Alibi, Dora called the bank that had given her a loan on the title, just to check if they repossessed it.

They hadn’t.

Dora stomped back into the Alibi, taking deep breaths, trying not to panic.

Rochelle noticed immediately that Dora was upset. She set aside the keg she was tapping and went to her. “Dee, are you okay?”

“Have you seen my car?”

“What? Isn’t it outside?” Rochelle looked out the window.

“No, it’s not!” Dora said louder than she meant to. “Sorry...”

“Dora, talk to me.” Lilith said in an even voice. “What make and model is it?”

“It’s a black 1967 Chevy Impala.” She looked at Lilith desperately, hoping her question meant she had seen it.

Lilith looked grim. “I saw it right outside when I went home last night. I remember because I checked my hair in the side mirror.”

“So that means between closing last night and now, it disappeared?” Dora deduced, frantic.

“Sounds like it was stolen,” Lilah said.

 _Stolen_. That was the word Dora was trying to avoid saying, to avoid _thinking._

“Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” She kicked over a stool and slammed her fist on the counter.

“Whoa,” Rochelle said. She and Lilith both stepped back.

“Hey, chill out, it’s just a car,” Lilith said. "Your insurance might cover it."

"It's not _just_ a car," Dora sobbed, but her eyes were dry. She was angry, not sad.

She didn’t use the car often because in Gotham, walking, buses, and the subway were typically faster and easier, but it did come in handy sometimes, like now when she needed to drive across town to deposit money in the bank. More importantly, the car had belonged to her father, and her grandfather before him. Although the car was 50 years old and barely ran, her father cherished it like a family heirloom. It was his main hobby and principle project. He had spent a great deal of his free time and money keeping it running, despite the persistent admonition from her mother. It was almost an extension of the Alibi to Dora and her dad.

What Dora learned from her father, and her mother never realized, was that despite how much money was spent constantly fixing the old Impala, in the end, it was still cheaper than paying off a newer car.

“Maybe you should call the police?” Rochelle offered.

Dora didn’t even have to think about it. “No way, I don’t want those detectives sniffing around here again. We got a good deal going with Ma, and I don’t want to fuck it up.” Bullock was annoying, and while Montoya meant well, she was too judgmental.

“Well, if it was stolen,” Rochelle said, “considering the type of people that have been coming to the bar lately, there’s a good chance it's in a chop shop.”

“Which means it’s as good as gone,” Dora groaned, pressing her forehead into the bar counter.

Lilith held up a hand. “Wait. Not necessarily. A ‘67 Impala? A vintage car like that might actually be worth more whole than in parts. There might still be a chance you can get it back.”

Dora perked up. “What, seriously? How?”

“Jessie and I go way back,” Lilith said. “She used to be a street racer and might know who took it.”

That was enough to give Dora hope, but Rochelle didn’t think so. “Dora, you’re not seriously thinking about asking the person that stole your car to give it back? Even if you find them, even if your car is still in one piece, why would they do that?”

“I’ll figure that out when I meet them,” Dora said. “Maybe I can comp their drinks here?”

“Or you could tell them you’re Red Hood’s girl,” Lilith pitched. “That’d make them regret stealing your car.”

Dora’s look swiveled to Lilith, astonished. “Wait, I'm not... how do you... who told you... ” Then she rolled her eyes. “Holly.”

Lilith smiled in amusement, nodding her head. “Holly.”

# 悪

Against Rochelle’s resistance, Dora left the cash deposit in her hands, and found herself at the Vermillion Hotel’s lounge. It was apparently a slow evening. There were only a few patrons dispersed throughout the room, most in intimate pairs, engrossed by each other. Dora found Jessie reclined in a booth, reading a book and nursing a scotch. She recognized the bottle, a Glenkinchie, as formerly belonging to her. As Dora approached, Jessie sat up and took off her glasses. “Oh hey, what’s up? Can I get you something?”

Dora slid into the booth, poured herself a cup of whiskey, and explained the whole situation to Jessie. Jessie listened attentively without interrupting. Dora finished with, “Do you know who might’ve taken it?”

Jessie fidgeted with the end of her braid, looking at Dora gravely. “You might not be dealing with just a group of car thieves. It could be a whole, legit _gang_.”

“Oh.” That made Dora pause. In the past it would have made her reconsider everything. But not today. She pressed on. “Do you know which?”

Jessie looked quite impressed that Dora was unfazed. “Yeah, actually. The only gang I know with a chop shop around here is the Street Demonz. They pushed the LoBoys out of Park Row when Red Hood took over.”

Dora had heard about the Street Demonz. They were an outlaw motorcycle club that specialized in the smuggling, trafficking, and distribution of everything illicit in Gotham, be it stolen goods, drugs, dirty cash, and even people. They had competition other than the LoBoys, but not much. She knew that because her dad had dealt with them several times. A lot of the members were veterans like him.

“Is their clubhouse still that warehouse by the docks?” Dora asked.

Jessie seemed surprised that she knew that—and concerned. “Wait, you’re not actually thinking of going there?”

“Jess, you really don’t understand. It was my _dad’s_ car. I at least have to _try_.”

Jessie conceded with an exasperated breath. “Well, you’ll need someone to vouch for you if you want to get anywhere near the clubhouse.”

“Do you know anyone?” Dora perked up.

“I do actually,” Jessie said, smirking.

She placed her left hand on the table in front of Dora. Her ring finger had a tattoo of a black box on it, obviously covering up a tattooed wedding band. But that wasn’t all. The whole back of her hand displayed a larger tattoo, one of an angry red skull with horns shaped like exhaust pipes. Dora recognized it. It was the emblem of the Street Demonz.

She blinked. “You?” When she first met Jessie, Dora didn’t immediately want to put her in a “biker girl” box just because she had a lot of tattoos, wore black clothes and leather boots, liked whiskey, and worked for a crime boss. She never noticed the tattoo simply because Jessie had too many for one to stand out. But if the shoe fits.

“Yeah, me. I’m an honorary member of the Street Demonz.”

“What do you mean by ‘honorary?’”

“They’re a bit—” Jessie paused, scoffing. “—actually _very_ sexist. A woman can’t be a fully-patched member, but I used to be married to a high-ranking one. Hence, ‘honorary.’”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I'm so excited! This chapter is the start of a hefty plot sequence that will really shift the story into overdrive. This is my attempt at making Dora a more proactive character rather than reactive. You know. Dora does stuff, instead of stuff happening to her.
> 
> Lilith and Jessie make more appearances in this chapter, played/inspired by my dear friend Lily-Lucid and Akrasiel. I didn't know when I created Jessie that I would be utilizing her so much and exploring this side of her backstory, but I'm really glad I did.
> 
> Some FYIs. The chapter title references the song "Heavy Lies the Ground" by After the Burial, a pun on the phrase "heavy lies the crown." It basically means that Dora refuses to move on from her past, so responsibilities inherited from said past threaten to bury her. She's digging her own grave instead of climbing out of it. Needless to say, it's a complicated song.
> 
> The Street Demonz are property of DC, not mine. Their conflict with the LoBoys is a reference to No Man's Land and War Games. The 1967 Chevy Impala is a reference to Sam and Dean's car from Supernatural, if you haven't noticed. Cuz in my head, Red Hood/Jason Todd is played by Jensen Ackles. Also, Dora's father Philip Montgomery is fancasted as Jeffery Dean Morgan in my head, a.k.a. John Winchester from Supernatural and Negan from The Walking Dead. Just thought you should know.


	20. Hellmouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intent on recovering her stolen car, Dora ventures into the lair of Gotham's most notorious biker gang: the Street Demonz.

** Chapter 20: Hellmouth **

Jessie’s motorcycle turned the corner much faster than Dora would have liked, leaning at a _very_ sharp angle to the street. It _roared_ as it straightened out and picked up more speed down the street. Dora squeezed Jessie tighter, heart racing. She knew she wasn’t going to fall off the motorcycle, but she couldn’t shut off the frightened animal part of her brain that wasn’t convinced.

“Could you just slow down, please! I’m not used to this!”

“Calm down, we’re almost there!” Jessie laughed.

They rolled into a poorly paved lot, slowing down as the bike’s wheels crunched over the gravel. A dilapidated brick warehouse loomed ahead of them, overlooking the Gotham River with the Sprang Bridge in the backdrop. Huge letters on the side of the building read Morrison Motors. As they cruised up to one of the open loading docks, passing a fleet of semi-trucks, Dora also noticed an assortment of aggressive looking cars parked alongside dozens of motorcycles, all custom-fitted for more than just daily driving.

They finally rolled to a stop. The engine snarled before shutting off, and Jessie popped the kickstand. Dora stumbled off the motorcycle with shaky legs, numb from clinging to the seat and absorbing the engine’s vibrations.

Jessie gracefully dismounted the bike, swinging her leg over the seat like a ballerina performing a pirouette. She pulled off her helmet and unzipped her jacket, letting her waist-length braid tumble loose. It was so long she had tucked it in her jacket like a scarf.

Dora did the same, but not as elegantly. Her hair was shorter, but more wavy and much thicker than Jessie’s; it didn’t play nice with a helmet. She combed her hands through it, trying to tame it. She fumbled around for her glasses, but remembered she left them behind and was wearing contacts. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she just shoved them in her pockets. All in all, she just looked awkward, while Jessie looked cool.

Nonetheless, their dismount attracted the attention the men loitering around the open loading dock. They looked brusque and insolent adorned in denim, leather, metal, beards, and tattoos. Each and every one of them leered at Dora and Jessie unabashed. Jessie basked in their gaze like a model on a runway, while Dora tried not to look uncomfortable. Self-confidence was everything to these men, and she wanted to be taken seriously.

Before they had left, Jessie insisted that Dora wear an outfit that would help her blend in. Holly had walked into Dora’s cellar while they were getting ready, unannounced of course. She chimed in with her—unasked for, but welcome—fashion expertise.

Both Jessie and Holly were pleasantly surprised that Dora didn’t have to try that hard to find an outfit that would work. Being a closeted metalhead, Dora choose the outfit she wore to concerts: her Doc Martens, black jeans, and a band t-shirt. She also had her battle vest, made of black denim and adorned with patches of various bands she was a fan of. She felt oddly nostalgic wearing it. It had been almost a year since she had the time or money to go to show. The feeling worsened when she remembered her father had helped her iron and sew the patches onto the vest.

“Okay, so I know it might seem like there’s a lot of overlap between the metalhead and biker look,” Dora had told Holly while putting on her makeup. She leaned heavily on the eye shadow. “But anyone who’s either knows they’re two different tribes. Right, Jessie? Do you think they’ll call me out?”

“No, you’ll be fine,” Jessie said, walking around Dora, appraising her up and down. “I do have one note though.” She shared a look with Holly, gesturing at Dora in general.

Holly nodded back at her. “You’re being a bit too modest, Dee.”

“What do you mean?” Dora asked looking down at herself.

“If you want these men to take you seriously, you’re gonna have to show more skin,” Jessie said.

Dora blanked. She had always thought the exact opposite. Men were more likely to listen to you when they _weren’t_ staring at your boobs.

Jessie had Dora abandon the T-shirt for a tight tank top that exposed a great deal of her arms, chest, and back.

“Wait a sec, Dee,” Holly jeered with a grin, looking at the skin of her back. “You have a tattoo? Since when?”

“Oh,” Dora said, positioning herself in front of her dingy mirror and looking over her shoulder. “Yeah, sometimes I forget it’s there since I can’t see it myself. Didn’t you see it when...” She thought back to the night Holly had walked in on her and Red Hood.

“No, of course not! I was too busy looking at Red Hood’s abs.” Holly gave her a cheeky grin. “And your lovely tits.” She reached out to tickle them, but Dora slapped her hand away and rolled her eyes.

“That’s a calavera, right?” Jessie asked, taking a step closer to look at it. The tattoo was an intricate and stylized skull, with floral patterns along it’s defining lines. It took up most of Dora’s right shoulder blade. “I thought that was a Mexican thing. Aren’t you Santa Priscan?”

“Gonna accuse me of appropriation?” Dora joked. “I thought it was cool, sue me.”

“What’s a calavera?” Holly asked.

“It’s a sugar skull. It means death,” Jessie said.

“To be exact, the death of a loved one,” Dora said. “The numbers on the skull’s eyebrows are my father’s dates.”

“That’s morbid,” Holly said.

“It’s beautiful,” Jessie said.

“Thank you,” Dora said self-consciously. It was meant to be both.

“Either way, it’s perfect,” Jessie noted. “Helps you fit in all the more.”

“You really think so?”

“I was married to one of those goons, Dora. Tits and tattoos appeal to that demographic, trust me. Whatever we can do to lower their IQs and make us appear less threatening, the better.”

A sharp wolf whistle brought Dora’s mind back to the present. The bikers were ogling her and she was beginning to regret her outfit. She was certainly less threatening to them, but they were more threatening to her... Fuck showing off her tattoo. It was personal anyway. She slid her vest back on, but left her hoodie in the bike’s saddlebags.

“You sure you want to do this?” Jessie asked her, clearly tuned to her body language.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The entrance to the loading dock was set up like an outdoor barbeque or picnic area with benches and tables. As Dora walked through it, she finally noticed a few women hanging around with the men, drinking and smoking and having conversation. They all sneered at her, like she stank or something.

As they approached the entrance, a man stepped in their way. He wore nothing underneath his leather vest, displaying his chiseled chest, abs, and arms, all covered in tattoos. Dora could see a shoulder holster with a gun peeking out. The emblem on the Street Demonz was tattooed on his throat.

The man was average height, but Jessie was tall, so she was on eye level with the brute. “Good evening, Alejandro.” She gave him a coy smile and tugged on the flap of his vest.

“Hey, Jessie. Long time no see,” this man named Alejandro grumbled. He brushed off Jessie’s hand, seemingly not impressed by her flirtatious approach. He spoke with a slight Latin accent. “Please, call me Alex.”

Pouting, Jessie backed off. “Too long, _Alex_.”

Alex looked at Dora, his glare unwelcoming. “Who’s your friend?”

Just as Jessie was about to introduce her, Dora gently pushed her aside. She knew she needed Jessie to vouch for her, but she had also realized she wouldn’t get the Street Demonz’ respect if she didn’t speak for herself. “My name’s Dee.”

“We’re not open to the public, _Dee,_ ” Alex said.

“She’s my guest,” Jessie explained, wrapping her arm around Dora’s shoulders in a possessive gesture. She eyed Alex steadily.

Dora knew the game Jessie was playing and leaned into her, placing her hand on her waist. If Jessie was the butch in this act, she could play the femme.

However, Alex wasn’t impressed. “Only fully-patched members can have guests,” the man growled, his eyes wheeling on Jessie. “Which you are not.” He grabbed the lapel of Jessie’s vest, shoving the blank leather into her cheek then pushing her away. “Take your _guest_ and leave.”

Jessie did her best to keep her balance and not stumble back too far. Her stance straightened and her expression became set and furrowed. She clearly did not want anyone watching to think she was being cowed by this man.

Unfortunately, her defiant stand was against a pack of wolves. Several men surrounded them.

“I think we’ve hit a wall, Dee,” Jessie whispered to Dora through clenched teeth, but she kept her eyes on the men circling them. “I overestimated my pull with these guys.”

“Wait,” Dora said to Alex, “I heard you guys got a hold of a 1967 Chevy Impala.”

Alex’s eyes widened, and he snarled. “You’ve been spilling our business to people outside the club? Jessie. Tsk, tsk.” He drew his gun. “You should know better.” He nodded at the other men, who immediately grabbed Jessie and Dora. “That’s a capital offense.”

“No, wait, she didn’t hear it from me first,” Jessie said, somehow keeping her voice calm. “She heard it on the street! You guys don’t cover your tracks well enough.”

“Well, you brought her here, didn’t you?” Alex signalled. The men holding Dora and Jessie pushed them to the ground. Dora hit the gravel hard, the stones biting into her knees and palms. There was a rustle of clicking and clattering. All the bikers were pointing guns at them.

Dora instinctively put her hands up. “Wait a sec!” she shouted. “I’m interested in buying it!”

She had predicted this. Asking for her car back wasn’t just a long shot, but stupid and suicidal. It was better appear like she was a buyer than the person the car was stolen from.

Alex’s eyes narrowed. He lowered his gun slightly.

“I’m going to reach into my pocket, okay?” Dora said, moving her hand very, _very_ slowly. She pulled out a fat wad of cash, wrapped in a rubber band. “Jessie’s not a snitch. I already know about your business and she knows _my_ business. She just wanted to make a connection. Help you guys out.”

Alex snatched the wad of money from Dora and flipped through it, checking the bills. “This aint near enough for a ride.”

Dora thought quickly. He had guns aimed on her and her money in his hands. What’s to stop him from simply taking it and turning her away?

“It’s a down payment,” Dora said. “I wouldn’t carry more than that on me. Crees que soy un idiota?” _Do you think I’m stupid?_ She laid heavy on the Priscan accent.

Alex steeled his eyes on Dora.

She stared back, not blinking. Would the chola front work?

“I think you’ve got balls. Get up.” Alex uncocked his gun and holstered it. He waved his hand and the other bikers did the same.

Jessie and Dora stood, brushing the dirt and sand from their legs and hands.

“Sorry, not sorry, Jae,” Alex said to Jessie, tossing Dora back her wad of money. “I had to test her nerve. Yours too. You’ve been away too long. Heard you sell pussy now with Ma’s girls.”

Jessie snorted and punched Alex in the chest. It was under the pretense of being playful, but Dora could see she put real force behind it. “Even if I was selling mine, you couldn’t afford it.“

“We’ll see.” Alex smiled at her, licking his lips.

“Dick.”

“Bitch,” Alex chortled. “You’ll have to talk to Reilly about that car. I’ve got no idea if we have it, that’s his gig.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem, but don’t expect a cut for bringing him a buyer.”

“That’s between us and him.”

Alex finally stepped aside and let them walk up the steps to the loading dock. As Dora passed, he snagged her back pocket and let the fabric snap back into place. He sent her an air kiss and a smile. Dora was as flattered as she was disgusted. Her outfit was working.

“Well, that was fucking weird,” Jessie said to Dora as they crossed the platform.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that for a girl who comes across as timid, and anxious, and second-guessing everything all the time, you’re _super_ fucking chill under pressure. Like crazy calm and decisive. Didn’t know you had steel nerves, Dora.”

She felt her face warm up. “Um... thanks?”

It was actually something Leslie mentioned before. She assumed it was a side benefit of being an ER nurse. Or at least training to be one. When shit gets real, when lives are on the line, you slide on your game face, your mask. That confidence, even if false, is armor you need to get shit done, inspire confidence in your patients and fellow medics. Leslie had once said you fake it till you make it. Eventually the game face becomes as genuine as your real face.

“Where did you get all that money?” Jesse asked. “Are you really going to buy back the car?”

“They were never going to just give it back,” Dora sighed, resigned to the decision. “I got the cash from the bar’s revenue. It’s my cut for the next few months, but I can afford it. Won’t be moving out of the cellar anytime soon, though.”

“This car is really worth that much to you?”

 She didn’t have to think twice. “Yeah, it is.”

“Well.” Jessie spread her arms. “Here it is. The Street Demonz Clubhouse.”

The place was _huge._ It was a warehouse, turned mechanics’ garage, turned bar, then transformed back and forth again.

It had high ceilings with ductwork, roofing, steel beams, and electrical wiring, all exposed. The walls in the corners were packed with floor-to-ceiling shelves of auto parts, creating a labyrinth of steel, plastic, and rubber. Faraway, there were several open garage doors with some trucks parked in their bays. Some cars were hoisted on lifts, but none were Dora’s Impala.

The remaining space near the entrance was made up of a bar-lounge area, partitioned with free-standing walls, and haphazardly strewn with mismatched tables, chairs, and couches. There sat a pool table in worse shape than the old ones Dora used to have in the Alibi. It was clearly so lopsided it couldn’t be played on, but someone was laying on it bareback, getting tattooed by an artist that was smoking marijuana like a chimney. In a corner nearby, instead of dart board, a _shooting range_ had been set up. An assault rifle was just laying in the open, on a folding table next to a box of ear plugs and a military grade canister of ammunition. The whole place was permeated with the smell of oil, rubber, whiskey, and gunsmoke.

Dora felt like she was on another planet. She had gotten a vague feeling of it back at the Vermillion and here it was again—stronger because there was no front. _This_ was the criminal underworld she had heard about so often. It wasn’t just a metaphor or a system of illicit relationships and exchanges. It occupied actual _space_. This was one of those spaces.

And she was neck deep in it.

Jessie pointed to a bar set up in one corner. The counter was made of repurposed industrial shelving and steel workbenches, the taps jerry-rigged with wrenches, plastic hoses, and copper pipes. There wasn’t a bar shelf, instead a wall of cracked open crates of liquor bottles were stacked upon other crates. The bartender, a curvy platinum blonde with tattoos on her chest, carried a crowbar on her toolbelt—Dora made a double take. The bartender had a toolbelt. And a holster. And gun.

Jessie walked behind the bar and approached her. “Hey, Cali, have you seen Reilly around?”

“Jae!” The girl named Cali wrapped her arms around Jessie and squeezed tightly. “Good to see you back, honey! Yeah, Old Reilly’s over there.” The girl pointed down the row of workbenches to a sleeping man. He was heavy set, had a dark complexion and full beard, wore a leather vest with the Street Demonz emblem on the back, along with several other patches that clearly signified a high rank and long history with the club. An empty cup and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him. He was hunched over, face down, his arms splayed across the top, snoring like a broken muffler. He was _out._

“I don’t know,” Cali said, looking at Reilly with apprehension. “Maybe let sleeping dogs lie?”

“He’s passed out drunk?” Dora asked.

Cali shrugged. “He’s been there since before I got here tonight.”

Jessie nodded. “This isn’t a real bar, Dora. They don’t follow the over-serving law here.” She pointed at the open crate of liquor. “All that booze is all-you-can-drink to a fully-patched member, any time of day, no last call.”

“Hmph,” Dora grunted. She ran her own bar. She was used to blacked-out drunks, and this one wasn’t going to get in the way of getting her car back.

She approached the man and was bombarded with the pungent scent of motor oil and sweat. However, she did not smell anything like alcohol. “You know what? I think he’s just tired.”

Jessie raised an eyebrow. “You really think so?”

“Do you have the stuff for coffee?” Dora asked, looking between Jessie and Cali the bartender.

“Yeah, if nothing’s changed,” Jessie said, walking behind the workbenches. She rummaged around for the ingredients with help from Cali. Once Jessie procured them, Dora noticed they had an imported Santa Priscan roast, one you only got from the Latin bodegas. “Where’d you get this stuff?” she asked Cali.

“I dunno,” she said, looking at the label. “It was in some bit of cargo we ran. Santa Prisca... is that in Mexico or something?”

Dora shook her head, slightly amused at her ignorance. “It’s in the Caribbean. My family is from there. Do you mind if I...”

Cali stepped aside. “By all means, go ahead.”

She stepped behind the bar and took over. “I don’t really like coffee myself,” she explained, “but my mom and dad loved the stuff. My abuela taught me a traditional Santa Priscan recipe. We call it pocillo. I used to make it for them all the time growing up.”

“That was nice of you,” Jessie said.

Dora shrugged. She didn’t really think so—it was par for the course. Her parents had worked so often, she was usually tasked with preparing breakfast. And dinner. And her sisters’ lunches. Her grandmother had done it up until she passed away.

She followed her grandmother’s old recipe, making it very dark, but with lots of sugar. She placed a cup of coffee on the workbench next to Reilly. She wafted the steam into his face, and softly patted his shoulder.

The man jerked his shoulders and grunted, startled. He lifted his head, grumbling with heavy-lidded eyes. “Ugh, sorry, Cali... Dozed off a bit there. Long run from Bludhaven.” His rheumy eyes shifted around, passing over Jessie and Dora and landing on the cup of coffee in front of him.

“Holy shit, that smells good.” He grabbed the cup and took a little sip. His dark brown eyes snapped open, and he put the cup to his mouth again, taking a huge gulp. “Mmmm, this is the best cup of java I’ve had in years. You’ve been holding out on me, Cali?”

Cali smiled and pointed at Dora. “Wasn’t me, dude.”

Dora slid onto the stool next to Reilly. “Hi, Mr. Reilly. Sorry for waking you, but I really need to talk to you. I hope the coffee helps.” She really hoped he wasn’t a handsy macho douchebag like Alex, but Jessie’s flirty approach had yielded some fruit. She sat with her elbow on the counter, at an angle that gave her some cleavage.

“Well, thanks, kid.” He toasted her, and took another deep, grateful sip. “Mmm... Hmm?” He looked perplexed, licking his lips. “Wait, this tastes familiar...” He looked at Dora, his eyes narrowed. His gaze didn’t stray from her face. The lines on his old face deepened. “Who...”

Dora’s eyes widened, something dawning on her. She recognized this man.

He recognized her too.

“Dora?”

“Uncle Reilly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no song references in the chapter title for this one. However, a “hellmouth” is a biblical depiction of a gate into Hell, which Dora has metaphorically walked through. Get it? I’m trying to make an allegory here about Dora dealing with the dark side, making deals with demons, and such... The painting back at the Vermillion in Ch17, that chat with her mom in Ch19... She entered the gray area back in Ch7, remember? Now she’s in the black.
> 
> Yeah, whatever. I won’t shove metaphors down your throats. It’ll make more thematic sense later on. I’ll try to make it more obvious in the rewrite.
> 
> You can probably tell from this chapter alone my other fandoms are Supernatural, Buffy, and Sons of Anarchy.
> 
> Anyway, more coming soon! This “find the Impala” plot arc has one more chapter left in it, but no worries, it rolls right into the next arc, which is quite the juicy one. I’m currently writing Chapter 24 and I’m having so much fun with it! I’m hoping with this buffer I can keep a steady upload pace of one chapter a week, at least for the summer. (Spoilers: You’ll see Red Hood again before I take another hiatus, I promise.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	21. A Wolf Amongst Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After using her nursing skills to save an injured biker, Dora finally earns the privilege of meeting the Street Demonz' leader. However, she finds herself unprepared to deal with the ruthless rogue that killed his way to the top.

**Chapter 21: A Wolf Amongst Ravens**

 

“Dora, is that really you?” the old man said, a smile breaking on his weathered face. He slid off this barstool and enveloped her in a hug. Dora was caught off-guard by so many things, his face, his smile, the hug... his odor—he smelled like the underside of a car—but not the least of which was that she _knew_ him too. She patted his back awkwardly.

“Wow, you’ve gotten so big!” Reilly said, finally pulling back.

“Um,” Dora said, looking him up and down. “You too.”

Reilly looked down at himself. He was a stout Afro-Latino man, equal parts muscle and pudge. His skin was a medium brown and covered in tattoos. He had short cropped hair and a full beard, mostly black but grizzled with gray. A faint scar crossed his right eye, its iris slightly lighter than the other.

“Dora, how do you know Reilly?” Jessie finally asked, having watched the two with curious amusement. “I thought I was your only connection to the Demonz.”

“Well, I thought you were too. I didn’t know Reilly was a member.” She looked at him intensely, trying to jog her memory. “Plus I haven’t seen him in... what’s it been?”

“I think nine or ten years.” Reilly settled back into his seat and took a sip of the coffee Dora made him. “Last time I saw you, you had just started high school.”

“So he’s your uncle, and you haven’t spoken to him in ten years?” Jessie asked them.

“Reilly’s not really my uncle,” Dora explained. “He was my father’s best friend.”

“Hey, I might as well be your uncle. We’re both Priscan and I’m your godfather, after all.” He showed Jessie a Marine Corps tattoo on his arm. “I served with her dad during the Gulf War, did tours in Qurac and Bialya.”

“Huh, didn’t know that you were my godfather.”

Reilly scoffed. “Yeah, no surprise. Your mom’s not my biggest fan.”

“Yeah, why’s that? Why did you ghost us?” Dora asked, serious concern on her face. “Last time I saw you, you were an EMT, not a biker.”

A groan rumbled out of Reilly. “Well, yeah, I was a paramedic after leaving the Marines. The job gave me access to scripts, so I stole ‘em, ran ‘em, and sold ‘em... The ambulance was also a pretty good way to transport dead bodies for the mob... until it wasn't. Got caught and spent five years in the clink. Joined up with the Demonz inside for protection... became fully-patched when I was released. That’s when your mom forbade me from seeing Monty and you kids...” He chuckled and shook his head. “So I stayed away.” Then Reilly slouched. He reached out and grasped Dora’s hand. “I was sorry to hear about your dad passing away, kid. I tried to go to the service, but your mom wouldn’t have it.”

“Thanks, that means a lot.” Dora patted his hand. “Sorry about my mom.”

“Tu madre es una bruja insana, mija...” Reilly chuckled. _Your mom’s a crazy bitch._

Dora snorted. She agreed a little.

Reilly himself reminded her so much of her father. For too long while growing up, Dora had believed that Reilly and her dad were actual brothers because they were inseparable. She should have known better; her father was white and Reilly was Latino, and his real name was Raúl. Dora’s parents got married when she was five years old, and she remembered Reilly being her father’s best man. And during a ride along, Reilly was actually the person that introduced Dora to Leslie Thompkins. She wouldn’t have tried to become a nurse if not for that introduction.

“So, what do you do for the Demonz?” Dora asked.

“On the record, I’m head mechanic and manager of the garage. We fix semis here. Off the record, I’m the Secretary for the club.” He tapped the patch on his vest.

“What does a biker secretary do?” Dora asked.

Reilly sniggered and took a sip of coffee. “All kinds of shit.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. “He means he’s in charge of logistics. Getting everybody the shit they need to get shit done.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Shit shoveler.” He toasted Jessie and looked at Dora. “She would know, her old man had this gig before me.”

“ _Ex_ -old man,” Jessie emphasized with some bitterness in her voice. She obviously held resentment for her ex-husband. She poured herself a cup of whiskey. “But yeah, I guess that made me Assistant Secretary, unofficially, since he couldn’t do his job without me.”

“You’re right, he couldn’t. They demoted him a little while after you left, and put me in his place.”

Jessie tossed back her whiskey, and slammed the cup back down on the table. She jabbed her finger at Reilly’s chest. “I know. That patch should be _mine_. Why they don’t let women hold rank is fucking beyond me.”

“I agree with you, kid, but I didn’t make the rules. A lot’s changed recently, though. The charter got a new president since you’ve been away. Young, progressive type. He might be open to patching you in.”

Jessie raised her eyebrows, intrigued. “I want to meet him.” Dora cleared her throat, and Jessie backed off. “But we can talk about that later. Dora’s got more pressing business.”

“Yeah, Reilly,” Dora said, “Being the club’s secretary, you’re exactly the person I need to talk to. Have you seen an old Chevy Impala pass through here?”

“An Impala...” His eyes widened. “Yeah, we just got one... but wait, you don’t mean...”

“That’s my dad’s car—why I’m here. You guys boosted it and I want it back.”

“I knew something felt familiar about that ride.” Reilly frowned. “Shit, sorry, kid. If I had known...”

“Is it still in one piece?” Dora asked hopefully, her heart throbbing.

“Last time I saw it, yeah, but the president called dibs on it, and I _really_ don’t think he’s going to give it up, especially since it’s a classic. Even less likely for someone outside the club.”

“I’m willing to buy it back,” Dora said, reaching into her pocket to show him the money.

“MEDIC!” Someone suddenly shouted. “Help! Someone get Reilly!”

Everyone turned their attention to the entrance of the warehouse. A group of men shuffled in, two of them carrying another. He was groaning in pain, blood dripping all over his body and smearing the floor.

“Damn it!” Reilly stood. “Cali, my kit!”

The bartender disappeared under the workbench and reappeared with a large duffel bag. She shoved it across the counter at Reilly, who grabbed it and ran. Dora followed him.

“Get him on the table!” Reilly ordered.

The man that was getting tattooed on the pool table clambered off. The artist reached under it for a tarp and spread it across the felt. The other bikers hoisted their injured friend on top of the table as he snarled in agony. Dora could see several bullet wounds on his upper chest and arm, and some road rash on his leg from falling off his bike. With a naked eye, she couldn’t see any broken bones. “What are you doing? This man needs a hospital.”

“Don’t worry, kid, I got it handled,” Reilly said through gritted teeth.

“He’s been shot!” Dora was surprised that he wasn’t understanding the gravity of the situation.

“Exactly! ERs report gunshot wounds to the cops, it’s the law. We’re outlaws, so _no hospitals_!” Reilly hoisted his duffel onto the pool table. “This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with bullet wounds in the field.”

“This isn’t the field, Reilly! We’re not in fucking Qurac or Bialya!”

“You’re right, kid, but this is Gotham and it’s a war zone too.” Reilly turned his attention to the injured man. “What happened, Chuck?” he demanded, looking him over. “Hey! Talk to me, man.”

The man answered only with a grunt of pain, but someone else spoke. “We jumped the False Facers’ gun run like the president told us to, but they had protection. They opened up on us and Chuck caught the first salvo. Had us an old-fashioned Gotham shootout.”

“Did you get the guns?” Reilly asked while unzipping the duffel and pulling out supplies.

“Of course we fucking got them.”

“Good. One less thing to worry about.”

“What the fuck, man?” Chuck finally shouted, breathless. “I’m about to fucking die and all you care about are the fucking guns?”

Dora was inclined to agree with him.

“Hey!” Reilly said, grabbing Chuck by the face. “You’re going to be _fine,_ kid. Calm the fuck down. You’re not going to die.”

“I got shot a bajillion times in the chest!”

“And you still have enough breath to bitch and moan about it, so shut the fuck up and let me concentrate!”

Dora stepped forward, taking off her vest and handing it to Jessie. “Let me help.”

“Don’t worry, I got this, kid,” Reilly said, pulling on latex gloves.

Dora snatched a pair from his bag. “Did you know I went to nursing school? You’re part of the reason I did.”

Reilly smirked, shaking his head. “Fine. Help me get his cut off.”

Dora did so and finally noticed that under his leather vest, Chuck was wearing bullet proof armor. It had served its purpose and stopped a handful of bullets from penetrating his lungs and heart. Some bullets had missed or gone through the armor and hit flesh. Dora counted three wounds, one each in the upper arm, shoulder, and chest. Fortunately, they were nowhere near any vital veins, arteries, or organs. Dora knew from experience that shoulder wounds bled a lot and hurt like bitch, but were easy to treat and non-fatal if taken care of quickly. Unfortunately, it looked like this Chuck person had already lost a lot of blood, so the clock was ticking, and ticking fast.

“No exit wounds, all the rounds are still inside,” Dora reported. “We should get them out ASAP if we can. He could bleed out before he makes it to the hospital.”

“We’ll take our chances here then.” Reilly smirked, patting Chuck’s cheek. “Here that, Chuck? We’re about to have some fun. Cali, get the vodka.” The girl did so and tossed him the bottle. Reilly took a swig and offered some to Dora. She shook her head. “Alright, Chuckie, open up, take your medicine.”

The man did so, taking several large gulps of liquor.

Dora snatched the bottle from him. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to pour vodka on his wounds. That shtick is a myth—”

“Relax, kid.” Reilly pulled out a bottle of saline from the duffle and handed it to her. “Irrigate, let’s go. We need to see where we’re digging.”

Dora pressed the nozzle into a wound on Chuck’s upper arm, the closest to a major blood vessel, so the first that needed to be treated. The man screamed as Dora squirted the solution into the wound. “I can dig this one out while you work on the next one. Forceps?”

Reilly quickly traded the saline bottle for a small medical tool and the two got to work. Only a few minutes later, two bullets had been removed from Chuck and gauze put in their place. His bleeding had stemmed a little.

“This third one is in a tricky spot.” Reilly noted the one in Chuck’s upper chest.

“Yeah.” Dora looked closer, prodding around the wound. Chuck yelped in pain. “Looks like it tore through his clavicle. Can you move your arm?”

“Hurts like a bitch when I do,” Chuck grimaced.

Reilly whistled. “Drink up, Chuck, this is going to hurt like a bitch.”

“You two are fucking butchers,” the man slurred painfully, but took another swig. “Do your worst.”

Reilly took the lead with the forceps and flashlight while Dora kept the wound clear with saline and gauze. Chuck squirmed and grunted while Reilly dug around for the bullet. “You’re fucking killing me, Reilly!” Chuck gasped in agony.

“Stop moving!” Reilly complained.

“Pretty soon I will, because I’ll be dead, you’ll be the one that let me die!”

Reilly sighed. “Cali, do me a favor and put him to sleep.”

“You have sedatives? Why didn’t you start with that?” Dora asked, then her eyes widened. “WAIT!”

But it was too late. Cali the bartender had taken the empty bottle of vodka and conked Chuck on the head, knocking him out cold.

“He’s going to have a concussion now!” Dora complained.

“That’s the least of his problems. I can’t get the bullet.”

“Well, he stopped moving now, so give it another try.”

“His squirming wasn’t the problem. I’m not a surgeon and the bullet is dug in _deep_ , behind bone, so you get your wish, kid, he does need the ER. I had Cali knock him out so he wouldn’t fight us while we drag him there. He’ll probably catch some jail time, but at least he’ll be alive and keep full use of his arm.”

“Let me give it a try. You clean up his road rash and start stitching him up,” Dora said, trading places with Reilly. She put a flashlight in her mouth and grabbed a foreceps and a scalpel, one in each hand.

“Ambidextrous? Impressive,” Reilly noted.

“Thanks,” Dora mumbled around the flashlight, and leaned in to work. She had to slice the entry wound open wider in order to reach the bullet, and she had to be careful while doing it, or she would knick a critical vessel and Chuck would die.

A few minutes later, she pulled out a little gray and copper ball. “Got it!” She flushed the wound and stuffed gauze into it.

“You fucking did it, kid.” He gave her a fist bump.

“Um, he still needs to be stitched up,” she said. “And a hospital, no avoiding that anymore...”

“Yeah, you’re right, we can’t do anything about his broken clavicle.” Reilly inspected the wound. “He’s not going to be happy when he wakes up. He’s still on parole; only got out a few months ago.”

“Take him to the Park Row Clinic. Remember Dr. Leslie Thompkins? She’s cool. She’ll stitch him up, set the bone, and won’t report to the cops. So long as you make a donation for the kids.”

Reilly looked skeptical.

“I promise,” Dora insisted.

“Alright.” He turned to his men. “You heard her, boys. Park Row Clinic. Can’t hurt to try.”

The bikers that had brought Chuck in picked up his unconscious and bloody body, placed him on a dolly, and rolled him away. Dora finally noticed they had an audience. Everyone that had been outside in the lot, glaring Dora down with contemptuous eyes, was now inside looking at her in a new light.

Jessie was staring at Dora too, her face paler than normal. “You never told me you could treat bullet wounds.”

“ _You_ never told me you ran logistics for a biker gang.”

Jessie scoffed and rolled her eyes. “We’ll catch up later. Let’s get you cleaned up first. Cali, do you have any soft colors lying around?”

“Soft colors?” Dora asked.

“Club merch. You’re covered in blood, Dee.”

Dora looked down, finally remembering she wasn’t wearing scrubs. Luckily, she had taken off her battle vest before treating Chuck, but her tank top was ruined. Cali handed her a brand new one with the club’s emblem on it.

Jessie led her to the bathroom and Dora washed up as best she could. She would have preferred a whole shower after all that, but cleaning her hands and arms up to the elbow would have to do for now. The tank top Cali gave her was much smaller and more revealing than the one she walked in with, but Dora slipped her vest back on cover up. After she finished, she sat in a stall and tried to process what had just happened.

She had just illegally field treated on a man without following any proper medical procedures, under an expired license. She could be charged with assault and sentenced to jail time, no matter how grateful the guy was. She hadn’t treated a patient in over a year, not since the gang war, and not since she dropped out of nursing school and quit her job at the Clinic.

A pang hummed in her chest. Some might call her a ghoul, but she missed the rush of the ER and ICU. Nursing was the one thing she was good at. While she didn’t hate managing a bar or being a bartender, Dora had to admit she wasn’t great at those things—as evidenced by the debt that the Alibi had mounted under her management, and the shady deals she had to make to repay it. But what other choice did she have? Let her father’s bar shut down and let her family’s livelihood die?

Some people were fortunate enough to make a living doing what they loved, what they were good at, while helping society at the same time... but some people weren’t. Dora loved the Alibi, but there was a reason why she chose nursing over it, back when she did have a choice.

Dora walked out of the bathroom to find Reilly waiting by the bar, having cleaned up himself. He was smoking a cigarette. “Man, if your pops could see you now...”

“What, he’d be proud?”

“Damn right he would be.”

“Would he be proud of me for letting his Impala get stolen?”

Reilly snorted and flicked his cigarette. “Right, the Impala. Like I said, the president has it and doesn’t want to give it up.”

“Just let me talk to him. If you vouch for me, maybe I can convince him to sell it back.” Dora pulled out her wad of cash and set it on the workbench.

“Look, Dora. Our president... is a fucking hot head. He’s young and smart, but angry and violent too. He took this charter by _killing_ the last V.P. and president, all by himself. Those False Facers that hit our friend Chuck back there? I’ll bet my bike they were defectors from a little civil war we had when he took power. You don’t want to get involved with this guy, Dora.”

“Please, Uncle Reilly,” Dora begged, touching his arm. “Do me this favor. You owe me one for Chuck over there.”

Reilly looked at her, taking a draw from his cigarette. “Cash in that favor for something else then.”

Dora locked eyes with him, her chin quivering. “Tio, por favor.”

Reilly held her gaze for several seconds, but then reeled back, sighing in frustration. “Ay, los ojitos. Not fair, kid, using them puppy-dog eyes.” He put out his cigarette, finished his whisky, and walked off further into the warehouse. “Follow me.”

Dora waved at Jessie to come along.

“I saw that trick you pulled on him,” Jessie said, laughing.

“Yeah, I used to do it to him all the time growing up. He’s a bit of a softy under all that grit.”

Jessie shook her head. “They all are. You just gotta find where the chink in the armor is.”

Dora and Jessie followed Reilly out of a garage door on the back side of the warehouse, onto a lot bordering the waterfront. Dora felt a cool moist breeze come off the river, heard waves crashing softly against the docks. A few dozen feet across the lot was another building, a freestanding garage with some ground level doors; not much different than the one they just left, just smaller. All the bay doors were closed, so Reilly walked up to the small one on the side. He pounded on the steel. “Hey, open up, it’s Reilly.”

Dora heard a series of deadbolts coming unlocked, then she saw a tall young man emerge from the door, his vest fully patched. He eyed Dora and Jessie up and down. “Didn’t ask for no girls, man. We’re busy. We’ll grab some pussy later.”

Jessie shared a look with Dora, telepathically saying, _Do you see the kind of bullshit I have to put up with?_

“You lay a finger on either of these girls, and I’ll shove a crowbar up your ass,” Reilly growled. “We need to talk to the president.”

“Prez said nothing about no meeting, Reilly.”

Reilly just grunted, impatient, and shoved the man aside, walking inside the garage. “Get out of the fucking way, kid.”

The tall man held up his hands. “Fine, fine, let the prez grill your asses, I tried to warn you.”

Dora entered the building behind Reilly, returning the hard look the tall guy gave her as she passed.

The garage was much different from what they saw in the larger warehouse. It was two and a half stories tall, with a large floating loft up in one corner, accessed by a steel and concrete staircase that wrapped along the wall. Dora couldn't see all of it, but she guessed it was some sort of office. The ground floor was what you would expect from a mechanic’s garage, decked out with tools, workbenches, and equipment. There was space to park for at least four cars, and...

There it was. The Impala.

It was jacked up slightly, its hood propped open. It had brand new tires, gleaming chrome wheels, and everything under the hood looked pristine and untouched by grease. Dora almost didn’t recognize it, but she was sure it was hers because the black paint was still dull, worn, and fading, and some panels still had rusty holes in them. The interior still sported the cracked and frayed leather upholstery. Her lavender air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and her cell phone clamp was attached to the dashboard.

Dora heard clanking and looked down. Someone was still working on the car, laying on a creeper underneath it. He was wearing black combat boots and gray fatigues, but Dora couldn’t see the rest of him.

Two other bikers were leaning on workbenches off to the side, drinking beers. They stood and did their best to look intimidating at Dora and Jessie.

“No outsiders right now, cuz.  The prez isn’t flying his colors.”

“Stand down, boys,” Reilly said. “The girls are with me.”

“It’s your ass, man.” They backed off.

Reilly walked up to the Impala and slapped the door panel. “Oye, rojito, I got someone here to talk to you.”

“Tell them to fuck off! I’m busy!” the president yelled from under the car.

Dora’s heart crept into her throat, throbbing.

“She says it’s important. Involves this ride,” Reilly said.

A clang emitted from under the car and the president’s legs twitched. “She?”

Blood rushed into Dora’s face. She felt light-headed. That voice.

The president slid out from under the Impala and deftly hopped to his feet.

“Oh, shit,” Jessie gasped, staring at him.

The president wore a grease-stained t-shirt, stretched over a lean muscular torso. A small red mask covered his eyes, with glowing white lenses.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's back! Ironic considering someone commented on the last chapter saying they missed Jason. It's been like... 11 chapters since we saw him last? Well, you're about to see that Dora noticed it's been a long ass time too. I want to thank you guys for sticking with my story and enjoying it despite how I basically only feed you scraps of canon characters. To me that means you appreciate my original ideas as much as DC's. Thank you so much. My dream is to write for them one day. Who knows?
> 
> I also wanted to take this chapter to remind/show readers that Dora is a great nurse, because it's been mentioned, but we've never actually seen her treat anyone. Spoilers, but she'll have more opportunities to show off later on.
> 
> This chapter concludes the so-called "Find the Impala" arc. I don't want to spoil anything but the next arc starts ramping things up. I'm calling it the "Reunion" arc. I've written up to Chapter 26, so expect that much before the summer is over. At least one chapter a week. My goal is to get to Chapter 30 before August.
> 
> Also, the title of this chapter references my absolute favorite song by After the Burial, "A Wolf Amongst Ravens." Awesome riffs aside, the lyrics are about being different in a world where everyone is the same. The wolf is a majestic outcast surrounded by lesser toxic people who are the ravens. Look at the situation in this chapter, and ask yourself. Who is the wolf, and who are the ravens?


	22. Unholy Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally in the same room with Red Hood, Dora confronts him for ghosting on her. However, Red Hood's explanation leaves her speechless.

Chapter 22: Unholy Confessions

“Hi, Dora,” Red Hood said. “It’s been a while.”

Dora stood rooted to the spot, her jaw clenched.

Reilly looked back and forth between Dora and Red Hood, surprised and confused. “Wait, you already know each other?”

“Yeah, we do,” Red Hood told him, but he never looked away from Dora. He smiled a little.

Dora didn’t return it.

Jessie, sensing the tension, walked over to Reilly and whispered something into his ear. His eyebrows perked up, then furrowed. Whatever Jessie said to him, it got his attention and he took it seriously. He gave Red Hood and Dora a long hard look, then gave Jessie a nod.

“Alright, guys, clear out,” Reilly ordered the bikers. “The president has private business to conduct.”

Immediately, the men erupted with laughter, but they obeyed the order. As they left, one patted Red Hood on the shoulder, teasing him. Another whistled at Dora. Dora felt heat rising in her face and chest. Reilly noticed her condition and chastised the bikers in Spanish, smacking one on the head and herding them out faster.

Jessie squeezed Dora’s arm softly and gave her a knowing, supportive look. Dora thanked her with a nod, and she left as well.

The door slammed shut, leaving Dora and Red Hood alone in the garage.

They stood silent for several moments, just looking at each other.

Dora wished she could see his eyes, so she could get a better read on him, but he was wearing that little red mask again. His dark hair was long and tousled—he obviously hadn’t cut it since they last saw each other... what, two months ago? The time felt longer than that. There was a light peppering of stubble on his jawline too. He stood there in his boots, fatigues, and tight t-shirt, with a wrench in his grease-stained hands, looking rugged and wild.

 _Damn it_ , Dora cursed to herself. He looked good enough to eat. What was it about men and fixing things that worked her up?

Red Hood finally broke the stand-off. He tossed his tool on a workbench. “It’s good to see you,” he said, walking to a sink by the wall.

Dora had no idea how to respond. She didn’t want to admit she was happy to see him—despite the fact that, five minutes ago, her whole body wasn’t humming like it was now. Thankfully, those fuzzy feelings in her chest were background noise to the screeching annoyance in her head.

_Good to see me?_

“Is it?” Dora finally said, her tone dripping with pith. “Why...” She was so frustrated, she couldn’t finish the sentence. _Why_... so many things...

“Why haven’t I come to see you sooner?” Red Hood finished for her. He washed his hands in the sink.

“Or call, or text...” Anger, hurt, and frustration was rising, fueling Dora’s words. “You run a fucking biker gang and a brothel. You have _dozens_ of people working for you, and there was _no way_ you could’ve reached out to me? You left me hanging! Literally! I had no idea what to think! I had no idea why you left in the middle of...”

She couldn’t finish. Memories of that night stung too badly.

Red Hood dried his hands. “Holly walked in—”

“But why didn’t you come back?” Dora yelled, ashamed at how desperate she sounded. _To explain... to finish all those delicious things you were doing to me..._

“Look, Dora, I’m sorry.” Red Hood reached out to her and Dora didn’t stop him. He rubbed her shoulders softly, trying to be comforting. “After what happened between us... I kinda freaked out.”

Dora didn’t have sleeves. The skin-on-skin contact was electrifying, giving her goosebumps. His touch wasn’t helping; it was bringing it all back. She wanted to be angry at him, not hungry for him.

“I was drunk, and I said some things...” Red Hood lowered his head, shaking it. “I did some things...”

Dora glared up at him, pushing him away. “You mean things you regret? You didn’t mean any of those things you said to me? _Did_ to me?”

That hurt. Bad. Tears filled Dora’s eyes as her chest flooded with anger.

Dora slapped Red Hood—hard.

The smack echoed throughout the garage. Red Hood didn’t look surprised, but his cheek was reddening and his jaw was clenched.

“You didn’t mean to kiss me?” Dora shouted at him, anger rising.

She closed her fist and punched him in the face, solid. “Undress me?”

Her knuckles stung, but she swung again.

But Red Hood caught her fist, within an inch from his face. His nostrils flared, breathing hard.

Dora tried to pull her hand away, but he was too strong. His touch, his soft breath on her face made her tingle in places she was ashamed of.

Dora growled, “Almost fuck me?”

Red Hood loosened his grip on her hand, and kissed her sore knuckles. “No, actually, I did. I meant everything.” A shudder passed through his body. He touched Dora’s chin and caressed her jaw. “That’s what scared me. How honest I was being with you. How much of myself I let loose that night. I...” He touched his mask. “I never let anybody in like that. I’ve never shown anyone my face... at least not since becoming... this. Not since becoming Red Hood.”

“And you couldn’t have let me know that sooner?” Dora pushed him away. She wasn’t going to let him work his broody sexy mojo on her again.

Red Hood stumbled back, bumping into a workbench. He was angry now. “I was busy!”

“Doing what?” Dora spat back.

“My mission!” Red Hood wheeled in frustration and slammed the drawer of a tool chest closed.

“Mission? You mean setting up a brothel and taking over a biker gang? Running guns and drugs? Killing people and blowing up buildings?”

“You try it sometime, see how quick and easy it is!” Red Hood shouted, pointing in the general direction of the warehouse. “I needed a foothold in order to get things done, in order to take down Black Mask and make sure he _stays_ down. Killing a bunch of gang bosses and their lieutenants sends a message, sure, but crime isn’t a snake, Dora. It doesn’t die when you cut off its head. Crime is a damn hydra. Cut off one head, and fucking two grow back. When you usurp the throne, you need soldiers to enforce the new order.”

Dora stared at him up and down, taking in the combat boots and bloused fatigues. She poignantly noticed how much he looked like a militant revolutionary... a guerilla...

A terrorist.

Is this who she was in bed with? Was this the leader of the organization she had joined?

Dora shook her head. She couldn’t let herself get distracted. He was avoiding the issue.

“Okay, I get that but,” Dora said, “it’s been over two months. In all that time, you couldn’t find five minutes to see, let alone _call_ me? Do you know how confused I felt? What kind of douchebag ghosts someone like that?”

Red Hood ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah, I was avoiding you, I admit that. But I was confused too. I needed to get my head together, make sure I was ready to take that leap with you. So I put it off a day... and another, and then another, and... now here we are. Two months later.”

Dora rolled her eyes. Typical man. Avoiding commitment. “So then after all that that time, you decied to _steal_ my fucking car?” She went to the passenger side of the Impala, reached through the window, and pulled something out of the glove compartment. She stomped back around to Red Hood and handed him the object. “Do you have _any_ idea how much this car means to me?”

It was a photo.

A photo of Dora and her father leaning against the car, smiling brightly for the camera. She was holding up her first driver’s license.

“I do actually,” Red Hood said, somberly. He gently put the picture on the dashboard.

“If you knew how much it meant to me, how come you stole it? What gives you the right?”

Red Hood idly kicked the car’s tire, a new one, fitted on a new wheel. “Fixing it up was supposed to be an apology gift.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “My men were supposed to let you know they were taking it, but I guess they’re not used to asking permission.”

Dora was caught off guard. “So this...” she pointed at her car. “Was supposed to be some kind of _demented_ romantic gesture?”

“Demented? No, but... I knew you’d be mad at me for ghosting you. I wanted to show you how sorry I was.” He looked at her and waited for her to lock eyes with him. “I wanted to show you how much I care about you.”

Dora shook her head. “By buying me off? I’m not one of your hookers, Red Hood!”

“No! Don’t you understand? I did this to show you _I’m all in_ , that I care about the things you care about. I know how much you love your bar, so I helped fixed it. I could tell how much you appreciated that. So I decided to help fix this too. To show you how _committed_ I am to us.”

Dora stumbled, trying to follow his logic. If put that way... it was actually kind of sweet of him. The intention, if not the gesture. How often does a guy fix your things without being told to? Her heart fluttered for a second.

But she recovered. “But there is no _us_. People keep asking me what’s going on between us and I have no idea what to fucking tell them.”

Red Hood tilted his head. Dora could tell his eyebrow was arched under the mask. “You told people?”

Dora shook her head, rolling her eyes. “Holly told people.”

Red Hood scoffed. “Fucking knew it... but... when people ask about us... what do you want to tell them?”

Dora froze. “I want... I want them to leave me alone. Our relationship is none of their business.”

Red Hood smiled. “So we have a relationship?”

“What? No...” Dora felt her face heat up. “But everyone... my friends, your people... the cops. They can tell that you... like me.”

“The cops picked up on it, huh?” Red Hood said, fidgeting with the stubble on his chin.

“They wanted me to flip on you.” She was too afraid to mention Batman.

“Don't worry about the cops, I’ll handle them, Dora.” He took a step toward her. “But they’re right. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. It’s hard to hide this torch I’m carrying for you, and staying away just makes it more obvious.”

“What are you saying?” Dora asked. Serenading her with metaphors wasn’t going to work. Right?

“I’m saying that I don’t care what people think anymore. All that matters is you and me.”

Without warning, Red Hood kissed her.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in deeper.

Surprised and offended at his nerve, Dora fought him, trying to push him away and worm out of his embrace. But he was so strong, and he wouldn’t let go...

And his arms were warm.

And his lips felt so good.

And the words he had said echoed in her head.

_All that matters is you and me._

Something inside her woke up, and it was _hungry_ , and it wasn’t smart enough to make sense of their stupid little argument.

She kissed him back, prying open his lips with hers.

He let her lead and loosened his hold on her, only for Dora to grab him instead. She cupped his face and kissed him harder, biting his lip, plunging her tongue into his mouth. She was so angry, so frustrated... In so many ways.

How dare he tease her like that? How dare he make her lust for him, and then disappear?

Dora wondered if it was possible to be so mad at a person, you could kiss them to death. Poison Ivy had figured it out, maybe she could too.

Apparently Red Hood didn’t like Dora leading this dance, so he pushed her against the car, groping her waist and ass hard. Dora could tell by the way he was kissing her, holding her, and pressing against her that he was as starved for her touch as she was for his.

Red Hood was an idiot for keeping them apart.

Damn right, he better be sorry.

Damn right, he better give her what he took away.

The pressure was mounting between them and it needed release. Maybe after that, they could think straight.

While wrestling Red Hood’s lips with her own, Dora fumbled behind her back, feeling for the car’s door handle. She couldn’t find it, but he did.

He shoved the door open and they tumbled into the backseat. Red Hood wedged his hips between her legs, and she locked her ankles behind him. He pressed his groin against hers, sending a little pulse of bliss into Dora that forced a moan out of her mouth, making her break the kiss.

She took the opportunity to breathe, and look at Red Hood.

He stared back at her through his mask, breathing heavily.

This was too familiar.

They had been here before.

Dora unlocked her ankles and pushed him away. “Wait...” Somehow, sense came back and reined in the lusty little demon that had possessed her the last few minutes. “We’re not doing this again. Not like this.”

Red Hood lay on top of her, breathing heavy, long hair tousled over his face. He didn’t say anything, but he knew what she was talking about.

“If you care about me so much, why haven’t you shown me your face? Or told me your real name?”

Red Hood shimmied off of her, and pulled his hair back. “I was afraid you wouldn’t give me a chance to prove how much I care about you... if you knew who I really was.”

Dora digested those words.

Did that mean he had something to hide? Something about his identity that he was ashamed of? Showing her his face and telling her his name wouldn’t change everything he did the past few months.

Would it?

“Are you worried about that now?” Dora asked carefully.

Red Hood rubbed her cheek with his thumb. “More than ever.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my chance with you.”

Dora sat up a little. He kept saying that. “Why _me_? What’s so special or different about me? You’ve only known me a few months. We’ve only seen each other a handful of times.”

 “Because it’s always been you, Dora.” Red Hood took several deep breaths. “Since we were kids.”

Dora gawked. What did that mean?

“I’ve never loved anyone else,” Red Hood said.

After a moment’s hesitation, he reached up and slowly peeled off his mask.

His eyes were blue—so pale, they looked gray.

The eyes were the missing piece of the puzzle.

Those were eyes Dora knew, eyes she never thought she would see again.

“It’s me, Dora.”

She couldn’t believe it. She was dreaming.

She was looking at a ghost.

With the last breath in her chest, Dora whispered, “Jason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, be honest in the comments, guys. Which of you guessed that Dora knew Jason before he was Red Hood? Who picked up on all the hints I was dropping?
> 
> I want to take this moment to remind you guys that while I cherish the canon, I do take liberties with it. So far you may have already noticed that I'm stretching the timeline. In the Batman comics, the Under the Hood arc probably lasted no more than two months. My story will obviously take longer than that. In my story, it's already been four months or so since Red Hood first appeared. Also, as you'll see in the coming chapters, I had to retcon Jason's backstory a moderate amount to make Dora fit into it. The bullet points are all the same, just the details in between are a little different. I hope you like it.
> 
> Last, the chapter title references one of my favorite songs by Avenged Sevenfold, "Unholy Confessions." It's an old fan favorite that's sadly being phased out of their sets, probably because their new fans don't like screaming... but I love screaming and the lyrics mirror themes at play in this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	23. Under the Hood, Part1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Hood finally reveals himself as Jason Todd, a boy Dora grew up with in Park Row... only he died eight years ago. What is Dora's connection to Jason?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do me a favor, dear reader. Before reading this chapter, please listen to or read the lyrics to the song “Pullin’ Shades” by Volumes. It inspired this whole chapter and might give some insight to the subtext at play.

 

“Jason,” Dora whispered.

With a trembling hand, she cupped his cheek. She had to make sure he was real, that she wasn’t hallucinating, that she wasn’t having another feverish lust-driven dream that was too good to be true.

“Jason,” she said again. She could feel his stubbled skin on her fingers. “It’s really you...”

He touched her hand. “Yeah.”

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah. I am.” His expression was straining to be neutral, but his blue-gray eyes were wet. Tears were there, but not falling.

However, they were pouring freely down Dora’s face. “But... but you’re... dead.”

One drop escaped Jason’s eyes, rolling down his cheek. “Not anymore.”

“We... we _buried_ you!” Dora sobbed, trying to catch her breath. “I was at your funeral! Your foster dad Bruce, he...”

“Yeah, I know, it’s a long story.” Jason tried to wipe the tears from her face, but she shied away. “Dora, I can explain.”

Dora shook her head, trembling. It was too much. It was impossible.

Jason wasn’t dead? He’s alive?

And he’s Red Hood?

Dora backed away, frantically fumbling for the car’s door handle.

Jason reached out, pleading, “Dora, wait!”

But she wouldn’t let him touch her. She found the handle, yanked it, and crawled out of the car.

The world was spinning and she was so dizzy. Memories were flooding back into her head, making her thoughts swirl. Her brain was about to burst.

And her heart too. It was beating too quick, too hard. Her lungs were heaving, but no air was getting in.

She was having a panic attack.

“Dora, breathe!”

And then suddenly she _was_ breathing, but too much, too fast. Her chest spasmed and her stomach lurched. She stumbled around, searching for something. Whatever it was, she couldn’t find it. She fell to her knees, heaved again, and vomited onto the floor.

“God damn, am I really that ugly?” Jason joked anxiously. He kneeled down and patted her back.

Dora jerked away from his touch, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t touch me!”

Jason withdrew his hand, the hurt in face all too clear.

Dora felt that hurt, too. No, he wasn’t ugly, but he was... Jason Todd. It was him. It was really him.

“I...” Dora gasped for breath, looking at him. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I... I need some air.” And before she knew it, her feet were already carrying her out of the garage.

“Wait,” Jason shouted after her. “Come back!”

Once outside the garage, Dora broke into a run. Dizziness made her stumble the first few steps, but eventually she found her stride. She sprinted across the lot to the warehouse and yanked open the door, praying Jason wasn’t following her.

Inside the warehouse, she wove her way through the tool chests and palettes, jogging until she finally reached the clubhouse area. She spotted Jessie by the makeshift bar, having a conversation with Reilly.

Jessie offered her a cup when she approached. “Whiskey?”

Reilly immediately noticed her state. “Whoa, kid. What’s wrong?”

“I have to go,” Dora told Jessie, gasping for breath.

Jessie looked at her up and down, concerned. “Why? What happened?”

Dora sobbed. “I don’t want to talk about it. _Please_ ,” she begged desperately.

That was all Jessie needed. She put her whiskey down and slid off her stool.

Reilly stood too, but put his hands on Dora’s shoulders. “Dora, tell me what happened.”

She gave Reilly an apologetic look. “I... Uncle Reilly, I’m sorry... Just tell him... tell him to leave me alone.”

The expression on Reilly’s face went from concern to rage. “What did he do? Did he hurt you?”

“He...” Dora didn’t know. “I just... I have to go.”

Dora turned and left the clubhouse with Jessie, glad that she was so tall. She stayed close to her back, trying to hide her tear-streaked face from all the bikers that were watching them leave. As they mounted Jessie’s bike, Dora wished her helmet was full faced. It was just as well, though.

The wind dried her tears as they rode away.

# 悪

Back at the Alibi, Dora went straight to the bar shelf, ignoring Rochelle and Lilith’s greetings. She reached for her favorite bottle of whiskey... but hesitated. Whiskey was what Red Hood—no. Whiskey was what _Jason_ sometimes tasted like when he kissed her.

She grabbed a bottle of Santa Priscan rum instead, and planted herself on the couch by the TVs. She didn’t bother to pour herself a cup. She just drank straight from the bottle, watching the hockey game, even though all her friends knew she didn’t like hockey, much less any sport.

“Dee, are you okay?” Rochelle asked, sitting on the arm rest.

“I’m fine,” Dora said, not looking at way from the TV. She took a huge swig of rum.

“What happened?” It was Lilith this time, sitting on the coffee table.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did you find your car?” Rochelle asked.

Dora finally looked away from the TV.

Lilith, Rochelle, and Jessie were all staring at her, their expressions full of concern. How could she even begin to explain what happened to them? She couldn’t believe what happened herself.

“Dora.” Rochelle saying her name with such pity in her voice was the last straw.

Dora sighed in frustration and stood up. She went into the office, locked the door, and set the computer to blast loud heavy metal music.

She couldn’t bring herself to go down into the cellar, just like she couldn’t stand the idea of drinking whiskey right now. Those things brought up too many memories of the night she and Red Hood almost had sex. The night she and _Jason_ almost had sex. She needed to organize her thoughts and process them one at a time. It was the only way to make sense of this _impossible_ situation.

Jason Todd was alive.

Jason Todd was Red Hood.

It all made sense now.

The last time they were together, he said he grew up in Park Row, he said he was her age, he said he knew her father.

The dreams she had been having for the past two months, imagining that Red Hood had blue eyes even when she had never seen him unmasked before. In her dreams, he felt familiar to her, like she knew him, but she just _couldn’t_ explain why, and when she woke up, she would forget what his face looked like.

That stupid little mask did almost _nothing_ to conceal his face—after all, it just covered his eyes, but...

 _God damn it._ She was in such denial that it could be Jason, that only her subconscious had been able to pick up on the truth. How could she be so fucking stupid?

But then... she couldn’t have been stupid and in denial. It was logical. Jason Todd had been dead for _years_ , so how the hell could he be Red Hood?

Jason never died.

He faked his own death.

And disappeared for years.

Then came back as a ruthless vigilante.

And seduced her.

It was all a lie.

Was it some kind of sick joke?

Well, fuck him.

Dora stayed in the office until well after closing time. When she finally emerged, she hoped everybody had gone home, and she could clean and lock up in peace.

However, Rochelle was still there, sitting in a booth that faced the office door. She had obviously been waiting for Dora to come out.

“What are you still doing here?” Dora asked.

“Jessie filled me in.”

“Of course she did.” Dora walked over and slid into the booth across from Rochelle.

“Don’t be mad at her. I forced her to tell me everything,” Rochelle said, reaching across the table to hold her hand. “Dee, you’re my best friend. If something bad happens to you, I have to know about it.”

Dora sighed and squeezed Rochelle’s hand. She didn’t expect it to make her feel better, but it did. “What did Jessie tell you?”

“Red Hood that stole your car.” Rochelle scoffed. “He’s the leader of the Street Demonz. And after fifteen minutes alone with him, you ran out of there like a bat out of hell.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” Dora sipped her rum.

“But why?” Rochelle asked anxiously. “Did he hurt you?”

Dora knew what Rochelle was thinking. “Not like that.”

But in hindsight.... Was it like _that_?

Dora had punched and slapped Jason, and he had kissed her without consent—at first. They were both toeing a dangerous line of mutual abuse, provoking each other. Their relationship, or lack thereof, was really fucked up.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rochelle asked, breaking Dora’s train of thought.

Dora rubbed her forehead. Was she ever going to stop analyzing every single interaction she ever had with Red Hood?

“I did see a ghost,” Dora admitted.

“What do you mean?” Rochelle asked.

“Red Hood showed me his face. I know who he is.”

Rochelle’s jaw dropped open. “Oh. My. God. I knew it. Who is he?”

“Jason Todd,” Dora said simply.

Rochelle blinked. “Um, is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

Dora sighed and took another sip from her bottle. “Back in high school, Jason was my... Well, he was a lot of things to me. He was my best friend... my first kiss, my first boyfriend... my first love...” She blushed and couldn’t look Rochelle in the eye. “My first _everything_. I was his first everything too.”

Rochelle’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit. So you’re saying you not only know who he is, but you like... _know_ him.”

Dora nodded.

“And he knows you? You’re exes?”

Dora nodded again.

Rochelle scoffed and threw up her hands. “Well, that explains why he’s so into you. Guys never forget the girl that swiped their v-card. He probably never got over you.”

“Apparently.” _Took me forever to get over him..._

Rochelle leaned in, intrigued. “But if you know him so well, how come you couldn’t figure out he was Red Hood until he showed you his face? You pashed the guy, what, two times now?”

Dora thought about it. “Well, technically too many times to count.”

“No, I meant since he popped up as Red Hood. You said he only has a little mask on under the helmet. How come you couldn’t tell it was this Jason dude? You _literally_ had your mouth all over his face.”

Dora scowled, disgusted at Rochelle’s description even though she knew she was joking. “Listen, Jason was the _last_ person I would’ve thought could be Red Hood!”

“Why?” Rochelle asked.

“Because Jason died eight years ago!” Eight years. Had it really been that long?

Rochelle actually took a moment to process that statement, and Dora wanted to commend her for it. “What do you mean he _died_?”

“ _Died_ as in he was _killed_ in a bombing and we buried him. I was at his funeral. Me, his foster dad, foster brother, their butler...”

“Bombing? What the fuck?” Then Rochelle shook her head. “Wait a sec, his family had a butler?”

“His foster dad did. Bruce Wayne.”

Rochelle went bug-eyed. “Wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold up. Wait.” She took a deep breath. “Let me get this straight. Red Hood is some guy named Jason, who you dated in high school, but then he was killed in a _bombing_. And you’re trying to tell me his foster dad is Bruce Wayne? The richest man in the city? The mother fucking _Prince of Gotham_? How the actual _fuck_ does that happen?”

Dora sighed and sank into the seat. She took a sip of her rum. “It’s a long story.”

Rochelle sat back too. “Well, I got time.” She took the bottle of rum and had a sip herself. “And you _obviously_ have a lot of baggage to unpack... So... start from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m wondering how many of you expected Dora to react this way. Let me know in the comments. I choose “Pullin’ Shades” by Volumes as the chapter theme song because I hope it explains what Dora and Jason are feeling. It’s amazing to think that Jason was in front of her this whole time.
> 
> “I’m in your eyes / And you still can’t see me now / I’m in your sight / But you’re looking all around / No wonder why I’m so lost and never found / I keep a light in the sound / You keep on pullin' shades down.”
> 
> What’s more, in Dora’s mind, Jason lied about dying, and what’s worse than your lover lying to you? Secrets they kept for years. Secrets that hurt you.
> 
> Next chapter is a monumental one. You’ll follow Dora’s thoughts as she tells her backstory with Jason and comes to terms with the revelation that he is Red Hood and whether she wants to be with him. I know we all love Jason, but for Dora it’s a hard decision to make.


End file.
